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It’s when Killer can’t bring themselves to try and overdose again that they realize it’s over.
It’s been over for a while, in their defense. Their life has been going downhill for years. It was only a matter of time before things got this bad again, no matter how hard they’d been trying to gaslight themselves and everyone else into thinking that things were getting better.
There is vomit staining their shirt and their favorite blanket. It’s been three days and Killer can’t bring themselves to do anything about it, even though the bile has dried and left their shirt crumpled and stiff and gross-feeling.
Killer is really, honestly hopeless.
If it were just the vomit, maybe they’d have less of a hard time getting back to normal. If it were just the half-dissolved pills that clung to his bedsheets, it’d be easier for them to hop back to it.
But it’s not. Their room is a mess - they can’t even see the floor. There’s rotting food next to their bed that they’ve grown used to despite the smell being one of the most disgusting things they’ve ever bore witness to. None of their clothes are clean. They haven’t showered in two weeks, give or take a few days, they can’t remember. Their body hurts in a way no doctor has ever taken seriously, but it still hurts.
The worst of it all is that there are matts in Killer’s hair.
Matts plural might even be an overstatement - it’s one big one that takes up most of their hair. They can feel it every time they turn their head. Killer doesn’t have the energy to cry, but their face scrunches up each time they’re reminded of it anyway.
It’s so stupid. They’re so stupid.
Killer had wanted this hair for so long. They’d spent so many years growing it out, desperate for a feminine look so maybe between every couple of ‘sir’s they got, there’d be a ‘ma’am’ that would even things out and lessen the blow that comes with realizing what they are – a they – is never going to be the default way people see them.
They’d probably have to shave it all off, by now, if they ever got the energy to shower. The thought makes Killer want to die, but they can’t even bring themselves to toughen up and go through with that.
It’s greasy, too. Their hair. It feels weird and heavy against their scalp, and the few times Killer had looked in the mirror, before being made bedridden by misery alone, the obsidian of their hair had looked shiny and wet. They probably stink. It’s embarrassing.
Killer hasn’t talked to anyone in weeks. Their phone is all the way across their bedroom, somewhere underneath or atop a pile of clothes, they’re not sure.
That had been an intentional choice – Killer had thrown it against the wall in a rage because Cross wouldn’t stop calling them, and it made them feel guilty for being like this when their stupid, dumb boyfriend deserved better than their hot garbage.
That might have been the night Killer overdosed on whatever mix of bullshit they could find, but they’re not sure. They’ve been drifting in and out of dissociation for a while now. They do know it’s been three days since they woke up from the attempt, though they’re still laying on their bed in the exact same position, doing nothing but sleeping and staring at the ceiling. It doesn’t look like three days have passed, but Killer knows better.
Killer hopes that they’ll die from liver damage or something before anyone finds them. There’s no way they can get away from what they’d done unscathed, but they sure as hell can’t afford a hospital trip, nor do they really deserve one.
It’s a gross grave to lie in, but Killer’s dug it themselves.
Killer thinks the only reason they haven’t pissed themselves here is because they don’t remember the last time they’ve eaten or had water. Food had become impossible to make. Staring at the ingredients had Killer feeling hopeless at best, and the bagged, processed shit they’d been living off of had run out. At this point, going to the store was beyond them.
So it’s been three days without water? Wasn’t that, like… the rule of thumb for how long people can go without it? Three days without water, three weeks without food – that sounds accurate.
Maybe Killer will die of self-imposed dehydration, even if the actual overdose was moot. Hey, there’s even a chance that their vomiting will speed things up, huh? Losing fluids, or something. Their mouth feels like cotton, now that they think about it, running their tongue across their teeth. They thought that was from the drugs, but dehydration works just fine.
Killer doesn’t really care how they leave this mortal plane, just that they do. At this point, they know they’re beyond saving. There’s just no getting out of something like this, plain and simple.
They close their eyes for what they hope will be the last time.
And are promptly woken up by a frantic knock on their door.
At least, they think it’s a knock. Killer is no stranger to hallucinations, but normally they’re not audible ones. Visual and tactile are par for the course, but this is new. And obviously, it had to be a hallucination, because who would willingly go through all the effort just to see their ugly mug?
Killer would laugh if they had the energy, or maybe sit up to see who it is. As it is, Killer can’t even croak out a go away. Their voice is hoarse when they try.
They don’t hear the muffled, “I’m coming in!” that results from their silence, though they are distantly aware of a door opening and then the shocked gasp that comes after.
What Killer does hear in full is the unmistakable sound of Cross as their boyfriend whispers, “oh, Killer…”
Killer wishes dehydration would hurry the fuck up and kill them already.
Before they’re able to process it, Cross is already making his way through the mess that is their room, uncaring of the clothes and clutter and trash that completely cover the floor. Killer thinks there’s no possible way for him to not be disgusted by this, and closes their eyes so they don’t have to look Cross’s shame head on.
They can feel the mattress dip when Cross sits down.
“Hey, Kills, I’m here,” Cross whispers, and suddenly there’s a hand on Killer’s shoulder. Killer whines and wills themselves to roll over, though their body hasn’t obeyed their brain in days so it doesn’t happen.
They just lay there pathetically while Cross takes in the state they’re in, surely becoming more and more repulsed by the second, and soon enough he’s just going to leave them–
Cross wipes away the black that’s been seeping from their dark eyes, along with – oh. Tears. Killer still had some left, after all.
“You look so sunken,” Cross’s frown is clear in his tone of voice. “When’s the last time you’ve had anything to drink?”
Killer groans. He winces.
“..I’ll be back,” Cross promises, and then leaves Killer alone to die in a puddle of their own sweat and vomit and grief, like they deserve to. Despite his words there’s absolutely no way anyone in their right mind would come back to this, and—
The rim of a cup is pressed against Killer’s lips. Water presses against dried, cracked lips, and before Killer can even remember that no, they want to die of dehydration, they’re gulping the water given to them like a dog presented with a hose in summer.
It’s all gone in seconds, but before Killer can even begin to say anything about it, it’s coming up.
Killer sits up for the first time in three days, and it’s to throw the same water given to them back up and all over their bed like the ungrateful, repulsive beast they are.
Cross pats their back, worried.
“Okay, fuck, okay, the website says– shit, I’m sorry, Kills, I didn’t know.” And Cross sounds heartbroken, for whatever reason. Killer can hear the click of his phone as it’s turned off and tossed aside. “It’s okay, I’ll get you clean– we– I was supposed to give you small sips, I’m sorry.”
Killer would laugh if they had the energy. Why is Cross apologizing? At least if you put him and a corpse side-by-side, you could easily point out the differences. Killer’s sure they look dead already, and they should absolutely not be making Cross deal with this bullshit.
Soon, another cup’s rim is pressed to Killer’s lips, but Cross holds the cup and never lets them drink more than a sip or two at a time before they’re made to take a break.
This goes on for… a lot longer than Killer thinks is necessary, and sometimes they’re so tired that the water dribbles down their chin, but by the time the cup is empty they feel less like a corpse than before.
Cross looks at them with concern that’s a lot more clear now when Killer looks his way. “Is that better?”
“...Y’h.” Killer’s voice cracks from disuse. Embarrassing. They clear their throat, and keep down the bile that rises at the action. “Yeah,” they repeat. It’s not as smooth as they normally sound, but it’s a proper word at least.
Cross rubs their back even though Killer is gross and doesn’t deserve it. Like the leech they are, though, they even dare to lean into the touch.
“Did something happen?” Cross eventually asks. Killer shakes their head. Why does everything feel like it takes a disgusting amount of effort to do? It’s not fair.
“Sorry. M’ just like this.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I didn’t check up sooner.” The worst part about Cross’s words is that the guilt that resonates from them is raw. Like Cross thinks it’s his fault Killer’s all fucked up, when they were just born this way and will inevitably die this way, too.
Killer frowns. “S’not your bad.” You called me and I didn’t answer. That’s on me.
“Where are your cats?” Cross changes the subject, which Killer both is grateful for and despises. Their head spins trying to readjust.
“Left ‘em with Color.” They eventually admit, after what is way too much silence. It’s shameful. “I was.. I didn’t plan to…”
“It’s okay,” Cross tells them, and it’s softer than they deserve. “It’s good they’re safe, yeah?”
Killer’s breath hitches and they look away. When they speak up again, it’s in a sob. “I just wanted to– …I wasn’t even thinking.” I just wanted to die.
For a moment, Cross flounders for something to say. “Hey, no, you were at least– responsible, with them? And we can get them back once we get all this sorted out. Okay? We’ll get you clean, and everything will be alright.”
“‘s too late for me,” Killer moans, leaning further against Cross, who’s shifted to support more of their weight. They probably smell like shit. “I won’t be mad if you leave.”
Cross wraps an arm around them. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Y’should.”
“But I’m not. Let me help you, Kills. You’ve helped me before.”
Killer opens their mouth to protest, but it dies in their throat. They don’t have the energy to fight Cross on this, not really. Slowly, they nod.
“We can get to the bathroom, yeah? Get you nice and clean, and I can sort everything else out. Does that sound good?” Cross suggests like Killer has a say in it.
Still, Killer nods because that doesn’t sound terrible, just like a waste of time. They’re practically dead already, and they feel no matter what it’s just going to end up useless. Cross doesn’t seem to agree.
Their boyfriend picks them up despite how gross the vomit stain on their shirt (and probably in some of their hair) is, and how much of a clean-freak Cross is known to be, and carries Killer over to the bathroom. It’s not surprising he’s able, the guy’s got a lot of muscle and Killer, in contrast, has a history of not actually eating anything of substance, but the action does make Killer feel smaller than they normally do.
It doesn’t matter. If they were going to be vulnerable in front of anyone, it would be Cross.
The bathroom is a lot cleaner than the bedroom, if only because Killer hasn’t been lying in their filth for the past week inside it. There’s still crumpled tissue papers strewn about, collecting the black discharge that comes out of their eyes for unexplained reasons before Killer eventually stopped trying.
There’s also piles of laundry on the floor from when Killer was constantly bathing and just too lazy to put it away, so it’s not all free from the mess of the connected bedroom.
Still, it’s the cleanest environment Killer’s been around in days. Cross lets them down once they’re inside (their feet are so cold on the tile), turns on the bath faucet, and leaves them to undress in privacy – ever the gentleman.
Killer snorts, finding a spark of amusement because Cross and them have certainly been nude around each other more times than either of them could count, but they’re grateful – especially because their body isn’t exactly something they want anyone looking at for long right now.
Their clothes (sweaty, dirty, haven’t been washed or changed in fucking ages) are kicked to a pile in the corner of the bathroom as Killer undresses without much fanfare, even if it takes a lot longer than it should.
Once nude, Killer finds they do have to piss, actually, despite everything. When they do, it’s a dark color that disconcerts them, but they choose to ignore it like they ignore everything else. It’s not red, which they’re pretty sure means cancer or something, so they can probably put that on the backburner. Even after all’s said and done there, Killer still feels like they want to die.
They turn off the bathtub’s faucet before the water can overflow and step in, even so. The warmth is welcome and makes their body hurt just a little less, and they sigh and sink further into the tub. Who knew laying in one position for three days straight could make you stiff? Killer’s lucky they don’t have bed sores.
The door is eventually nudged open a smidge, then widened further as Cross steps in, seemingly having been summoned by the sound of sloshing water. “Sorry, just— want to check in again.”
It’s a little cute how worried Cross seems to be, Killer thinks, so long as they ignore the feeling of dread that comes with examining why Cross is so worried. Without thinking they bring their arms up to cover their chest, but that’s apparently the wrong thing to do because the motion lets Cross zero-in on their arm for the first time, and he doesn’t look terribly pleased.
“...Killer, can I see your arm?”
And now he’s quieter.
Killer doesn’t think they’re in any mood to fight him on this, as strange as the request may be. Killer’s still lightheaded and drowsy from dehydration and maybe whatever they took three days ago (why hasn’t Cross brought that up yet? Why isn’t Cross mad at them?) and limply lifts up the arm, though the other still covers their chest. Killer thinks they’d be happier as a mannequin.
Cross takes their arm in probably the most gentle grip he’s ever used on Killer, especially since he’s prone to underestimating his strength at times, and gives it a real hard look. For a moment Killer still doesn’t recognize why – their arm looks like it always does, right?
Cross turns the arm around and Killer’s confronted with wide, red scabs, gouges into the flesh that are very obviously self-inflicted into their forearm, even as scattered and unorganized as they are.
Oh.
Killer remembers that now. They’d almost forgotten, especially since they’d been covered up for days by their gross sweatshirt.
They’d done… that back when they could still move, could still do things, could still go outside. Killer doesn’t think they have the energy to cut themselves now, which is either a good thing or a bad thing depending on the way you look at it.
Back then, they didn't even have the energy to give their wounds some meager aftercare – back during what Killer’s going to start referring to as the beginning of the end at this point. Something that Cross, looking at their handiwork, doesn’t seem very happy with.
“Sorry,” Killer apologizes, because what else can they do? The damage is already done, but they don’t want to say nothing. Cross deserves better than that, at least.
His boyfriend gives his arm another scrutinizing look. Killer wants to squirm.
The wounds are ugly. They’re thick and wide and gross to look at because Killer had gone too deep, but not deep enough to kill. Just enough to look hideous. But the injuries have already started to scab over, too, so it’s not like Cross can do anything now besides frown at them.
“Did you treat these at all?”
“No,” Killer bites out and tries to stifle the agitation that rises whenever this is brought up. They’re always so defensive over these things. Cross is out of his mind to put up with it still. Their anger melts in an instant at the realization, and Killer slumps further into the water in their guilt.
“..Well, they don’t look infected. Just… keep an eye out, okay? Let me– let me know if you need any help with them. Please.”
“I will.”
Killer’s arm is released and they slowly lower it into the bath, wincing at the sting of warm water against sensitive flesh.
Cross hands them another filled cup, and warns them gently, “slow sips, okay?”
“Slow sips.” Killer confirms. Their free hand shakes as they hold the cup, bringing it up to their lips to take two awfully slow sips, just to emphasize that they understood.
Cross presses a chaste kiss to their forehead and looks at them with what can’t be pride, because nobody in their right mind would be proud of them right now. “I’ll leave you to the bath, okay? I’ll be back when you’re done.”
Killer nods their understanding, and Cross shuts the door behind him as he leaves, clearly trusting that Killer could at least wash themselves.
Yet what does Killer do, after being given so much already? They sit in the bath. Uselessly. The thought of having to wash their hair makes them want to drown themselves, but they can’t do that to Cross, not when he’s already putting so much effort into them.
The water isn’t totally clear anymore but it’s not a comedic brown which makes Killer feel better. All their gross is just sweat, they didn’t go rolling in piles of mud before picking bedrotting up as a career, so that’s at least a little less embarrassing. It’s a little milky-ish though. Killer’s sure it has something to with dead skin cells, but they’re not sure.
They sit there, still. In the bath. Doing nothing, feeling powerless, even though they should just man up already and fucking bathe themselves. What are they, a child? Some stupid little boy who can’t do anything right–
Killer’s crying again, and they can only tell because the black whatever-it-is that seeps from their eyes at inopportune times is dripping into the water at a pace it’s normally too viscous to do. Killer’s face pinches in repulsion, and they bring their knees to their chest and just sit there.
Helpless. They feel completely fucking helpless. They’re twenty-four, for the stars’ sake, not ten. Why couldn’t they even do this? Cross asked so little of them, and yet all they can stomach doing is sitting and rotting away in the bathtub instead. They wipe their tears away and try their best to stop their flow.
Failure. When it comes to Killer, it’s always failure.
The water is cold when Cross eventually returns to the bathroom, and his brow is furrowing immediately and he looks upset and Killer curls up tighter in a ball.
“I’m sorry,” They speak so quietly it’s barely heard over the jostling of water in the tub as they shift further against the porcelain back. “I couldn’t do it, I’m sorry.”
Cross puts something on the toilet seat and rushes to Killer’s side. The guilt they feel at the motion is overwhelming, Killer might as well be drowning in a sea of it.
“Hey, no, it’s okay. I can help with this.” Cross offers in an instant, at Killer’s beck and call like always even though he shouldn’t be.
“You shouldn’t have to,” Killer says in a tone that’s whinier than they’d like. Stars, how pathetic are they?
Cross moves to unplug the water, and Killer nearly gets lost in watching it drain – Cross presses the cup to their lips again and they take another two, slow sips – before the faucet is turned on again.
“I’ll wash you, dude. Seriously, I don’t mind.”
Killer bites their tongue. They don’t think they could do it on their own, but it feels humiliating having to ask Cross to help them with this. But what other option was there? Sit in their own filth until the day they die? Cross wouldn’t let that happen if they tried to.
Gingerly, Killer nods, face scrunched as they try not to let any more tears fall.
Cross, like he is with everything else, is diligent with how he bathes Killer. He’s lathered the red-and-black loofa Killer has with the coconut body wash they like, and scrubs down each of their limbs, and then their front and back and shoulders and he does it gently, but harsh enough that he’s actually scraping dead skin cells off.
He even takes a rag and wipes down Killer’s face, scrubbing at their cheeks until the discharge from their eyes is completely gone from their skin.
After he’s done, Cross makes Killer go underwater to wet their hair, and when they resurface the matt that their hair has become heavy and waterlogged and Killer wants to cry again. They don’t know how it got this bad. They don’t know how this happened.
“It’s okay,” Cross reassures them, unprompted. “We’ll figure it out.”
We’ll figure it out.
Killer wants to believe him, and lets Cross massage their strawberry shampoo into their hair and scalp even if it feels like fighting a losing battle. Killer knows they’re gonna have to cut it off. It’s gotten too bad. It just can’t be fixed at this point.
Cross still seems determined to try. He makes Killer rinse, then puts a shit-ton of conditioner in the matt of their hair and tells Killer to sit for a minute above water, all the while nudging the cup of water again for them to sip from.
It’s the rehydration process, Cross tells them while they wait for the conditioner to settle in. The website he’d frantically looked up upon arrival said to space it out to about three hours, then Killer should hopefully be fine – though their stomach might act up for a few more hours afterwards, so Cross says he’ll wait until later to get them something to eat.
Killer is fine with that. Eating has never been fun for them.
The conditioner is eventually washed out in the bath along with everything else, though the matt remains. Killer scowls at its existence, but doesn’t have the time to think about it for long as Cross drains the bath and asks them in a quiet voice if they’d like to stand up now and get dry.
Almost immediately when they do, Killer is wrapped in a towel they register as too warm to be anything but fresh out of the dryer, and is rubbed down by Cross without them even having to ask as they step back onto the still-cold tile of their bathroom floor.
Once dry, Cross wraps the towel around their chest and grabs what he’d put on the toilet seat back when he’d first arrived and thrusts it into Killer’s arms, as though embarrassed.
Killer looks down. It’s… their pajamas. The plush pink ones, with hello kitty on the shirt. They feel like they want to cry all over again, because these are warm, too, and did Cross really do a load of their laundry? (How long were they in the bath just doing nothing for that to happen?)
Killer is freezing now that they’re outside of the bath, the cool air hitting their wet skin, so they drop the towel (and Cross averts his gaze even still) and put on the underwear-pajama set Cross brought for them.
They feel a lot cleaner now. Less… terrible and filthy. Like maybe they didn’t quite hit their expiration date, even if they were close. It’s… significantly better than how they felt before.
…Their spit still tastes sour, though, both from the fact they’ve vomited several times and also the fact they haven’t brushed their teeth in ages – and won’t their dentist just have a field day with that news – and Killer ambles towards the sink.
If they’re already here, they might as well make it worth their while.
“Gonna brush my teeth,” They tell Cross absentmindedly, even if it feels like they're wading through mud.
“Oh! Yeah, shit, that’s awesome, go for it,” comes Cross’s enthusiastic but off-guard response. Killer rolls their eyes, though the action is fond, and Cross comes up behind them to press a kiss to their shoulder.
Their toothbrush is bone dry, and they feel self conscious if only because they know Cross is the exact opposite of them in every regard. Killer’s seen Cross sad, and angry, and frightened, but never depressed to the point he gives up his hygiene.
The thought that Killer’s not depressed, just gross and lazy, has come up about a million times during their little bedrotting session, and like every other time they push it out of their mind.
Killer brushes their teeth. There’s an ungodly amount of plaque. How Cross can still want to kiss them after this is beyond them. They don’t use the toothpaste because they don’t have the energy to, but it’s better than doing nothing to get all of it off.
Their gums bleed and they try not to let Cross see, because he’s still loitering next to them and it still feels embarrassing.
Halfway through, Cross leaves with yet another kiss to their shoulder to get something from his car, which lets them go a little more in depth with getting the tougher bits of plaque out and brushing their tongue.
When they spit into the sink, it’s mostly blood, but they feel cleaner than before, though looking back up at the mirror makes them feel like a mess all over again.
Killer’s got too much stubble for their comfort, something they’d managed to completely overlook until it stared them in the face. Worse than brushing teeth, but less embarrassing, is the ordeal of shaving.
It’s a longer process and Killer still feels helpless and miserable with the ever-present weight of their stupid matted hair, but they need something to occupy themselves or else they’ll just stare listlessly at the wall again and make Cross upset when he gets back.
So, they get their stupid shaving gel and try.
Cross is back by the time they’re done, Killer can hear the front door of his apartment close as their boyfriend returns, and Killer was lucky enough not to gain any annoying-ass nicks when shaving. They’re too overwhelmed and lazy and tired to shave their legs or arms or armpits or any part of their body that isn’t their face like they normally do, but it’s mostly covered up by the pajamas, anyway.
“You done?”
Cross’s voice isn’t impatient as it comes though the bathroom door, but it makes Killer feel self-conscious regardless. They open the door to look Cross’s way, even if briefly, and give him a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Come out to the couch and we can brush your hair!” Cross shouts again. We, he says, like he’s not going to be the only one putting in effort. He’s got a waterbottle in his left hand as the other waves Killer’s way. It gives them pause.
“...I thought we were gonna have to shave it.” Killer has hair clippers, somewhere under their bathroom sink, though it might take a while to find it among all the junk they’ve shoved in there over the years.
Cross makes an unsure face at Killer’s words, seeming to consider them before gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Well… we’re not ruling that out. But I’m gonna give your hair a good shot first.”
“You don’t have to,” Killer points out, but they walk out of the bathroom regardless.
They pause. Their bathroom is connected to their bedroom, which they’d have to walk through to get to their main area where the couch was, but instead of treading through piles of clothes and garbage, Killer can see the floor.
It’s not spotless, but it’s tidy. Most of their dirty clothes are in a hamper, and their bed has been stripped clean of its sheets and blankets and pillow cases, which Killer can only assume have been tossed in the laundry with a load of Killer’s clothes. There’s no stains of vomit or blood on their mattress even though Killer was sure it’d be ruined with all they’d done. Their desk is cleaned off, and there’s nothing strewn about on the carpeted floor.
“Hey,” Cross greets him gently. Killer feels like crying – did Cross really do all this for them? How did he even manage, Killer felt nauseous just looking at the state of their room. How was this possible?
“You, um… you cleaned,” is all Killer can get out.
Cross takes their hand in his. “Thought you needed it.”
“You didn’t have to,” the oh-so-familiar argument comes out without conscious effort. Killer feels like a broken fucking record, have they even said anything of substance this entire time? Cross always does so much for them, even when he doesn’t have to.
“It’s no skin off my back, dude. I thought it’d help.”
“It.. it does.” Killer swallows and lets Cross guide them away from their room and to their couch.
The rest of their apartment has also been considerably tidied, but it wasn’t as abysmal as the room so Killer doesn’t rehash the whole you didn’t have to thing. They plop down on the couch next to Cross, noting the spray bottle of strawberry-scented detangler and the hairbrush that were likely fished out from Killer’s cabinets.
Before they start, Cross puts on one of the animes that he likes so much on the TV. It’s one of the longer ones, Killer notes, with eight seasons Killer can see, maybe more if he scrolled down and didn’t start from the pilot.
Killer doesn’t complain – it’s only fair Cross gets to pick the show if he’s the one brushing Killer’s hair, not to mention the fact Killer normally ends up getting invested in any show after watching it long enough.
Killer winces when Cross starts brushing but doesn’t dare throw a fit. The whole ordeal feels like a lost cause, but they’ll sure as hell let him try if he wants, another cup of water nudged within their hands for them to sip every so often. Killer settles against Cross’s back as their boyfriend tries to section the not-matts away from the matted bit, brushing the bottom of the worst of it in short, firm strokes.
In the end, it takes Cross six long, painful, laborious hours to finish brushing Killer’s hair. It’s a much more time-consuming process than either of them really expected it to be, and was interrupted by plenty of tears and breakdowns and clumps of hair being torn out, to the point Killer had started to believe it really was a lost cause.
But it wasn’t. Far later into the night than it should have been, Killer is slumped against Cross and crying with relief as they brush their hair with their fingers, in complete and utter disbelief.
Unmatted, it reaches down to the middle of their back. It feels like hair again, and Killer feels so much lighter than before. They can’t stop touching it, marveling at the fact they can run their fingers through it again. It’s soft.
“Is it okay?” Cross asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned, like he’d done anything short of a fucking miracle on his poor excuse of a lover. Killer wants to kiss him a million times over. They don’t think he could ever repay Cross for this.
Killer sputters to find their words through their tears, having a clear struggle with how to articulate just how much this means to them. “I didn’t– I thought it was gone.”
“Nothing’s ever gone for good,” Cross promises them, and holds them close to his chest, and just lets them be. “I’m happy I could help.”
“You didn’t just help, Cross– fuck, I didn’t–” Killer bites their tongue. “I thought it was over for me. I thought this was it.” But it doesn’t feel so final anymore. Killer still feels like shit, but they can exist again.
“Next time, please call me when it gets this bad.” Cross murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of their face. “I’m– I know I’m acting really normal about this but you– you scared me with this, Kills. I didn’t–” And his voice is shaking, now, like he’s fighting back tears. “You didn’t look alive when I first saw you.”
Killer’s face twitches. That’s… yeah. That must’ve been horrifying. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I don’t– I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just– I’m glad you’re fine, yeah? And that I got to help you. I…” Cross trails off, squeezing Killer tighter. The pressure is welcome.
They both know this can’t keep happening. It wasn’t fair of Killer to do this. In a clearer head, they can see that now. But they also know they just can’t… be fixed all of a sudden, no matter how much they want to be.
“I can move in, if you want.” Cross suggests.
What?
Killer stiffens, then relaxes with a laugh – distantly registering it as the first time they’ve laughed in weeks. Even if it’s through tears that are, thankfully, slowing down.
“Y’see my mess and think ‘hey, this looks reasonable to live in’? Really, Crossy?” Killer nudges him goodnaturedly, but there’s something hurt in their voice. At least they feel more like themselves now.
“Well… we can split the rent, which would let us save up easier for actual, real medication– because Killer, I love you, but we both need that.” Cross pauses, and Killer snickers– because yeah, fair. “And we can help keep each other afloat. I want to see you do better, and if me being there would help that, I want to be there.”
“I don’t want to leech off you.” Killer argues. “I do freelance work, I’m not exactly swimming in cash. I don’t want this to be a… ‘I depend on you for everything’ situation.”
“Can we at least talk about this in the morning?” Cross asks, and he does so with the biggest widest puppy eyes that Killer has to avert their gaze to not fall to their whims. “Even if it’s not moving in, I want to work out something to help you. It’s what I’m here for.”
“..We can talk about it in the morning, yeah.” Killer agrees with a sigh. Getting to think on it for a while will probably do them both some good, anyway, no matter the conclusion they turn to. Killer nestles back against Cross, who rests his head on their shoulder with a comfortable hum.
The TV is still playing season-whatever episode-whatever of that anime Cross picked, which Killer is unfortunately now invested in after being sat in front of it for a quarter of a day. It’s easy to pretend that three days ago, Killer didn’t try to kill themselves, and that Cross isn’t stuck picking up the broken pieces.
…Killer really needs to make it up to him somehow.
Maybe not doing this to him again is enough.
“How’re you feeling?” Cross asks, the sound rumbling against Killer’s neck.
Killer doesn’t feel great, still, or even good. But they do feel okay, and like they can breathe for the first time in ages. Everything isn’t fixed, Killer doesn’t think anything really is even after all of this, but it’s becoming easier and easier to get to the actual fixing-it part.
“Feeling alright, I think.” Killer leans up to press a kiss to Cross’s cheek, who absolutely melts at the contact.
“Alright enough to order something to eat?” Cross’s voice even sounds brighter at the affection. Eating normally is another issue Killer doesn’t think they’re able to fix just yet, even if they want to, though.
Killer presses another four kisses to the side of Cross’s face in quick succession. With Cross it feels easier to try, if nothing else.
“Sure thing, babe. What’re you thinkin’?”