i can't trust my fingers, i can't trust my tongue.

Million Dollar Deal

somnallocution — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 21:57:46 GMT

Million Dollar Deal
(Suits Fandom)
~7700 words
disclaimer: I own nothing!
warning: non-con,

a/n: For Arianna because all we do is workshop H/C fics all the time forever I LOVE YOU BESTFRIEND HAHAHA. XD Um okay. That was a lot of no punctuation. Hope you enjoy!

Harvey wasn't worried about Mike. They'd been over it maybe a hundred times -- "You're just reeling in the client, Mike. This is a done deal, okay? Already on the line. You go to his apartment, you have a glass of ridiculously expensive wine while you talk, you go home, and then you bring the papers to my office in the morning. Even you can't screw this up."

Harvey's expression was steady, but he could see that familiar bewilderment in Mike's big blue puppy-dog eyes. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at him, and instead just patted him on the shoulder and spun him around to face the door. It was nearly seven thirty already, and Mike was still at the office. Harvey had insisted he take a cab this time, at least, so he didn't show up sweaty and wind-swept with his suit all crumpled to this meeting.

"You'll be fine. Just don't fuck up."

Mike tried not to think about how reassuring that wasn't.

"Thanks, great advice. And if I fuck up?"

"You're fired."

"Right, very good."

Mike sighed and closed his eyes, and Harvey walked away, speaking as he did, one hand in his suit pocket.

"This isn't rocket science, just don't fuck up. I told you, I'd vastly prefer not to own a puppy."

_

Mike felt things were going pretty well. It was pretty easy to pretend without Harvey or Louis breathing down his neck, at least so far, and looking out the penthouse window at the lights of the city, holding a glass of red wine that cost more than a month's rent on his first apartment -- that was even easier.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Donald Mohr. He was the CEO of a multibillion dollar corporation, a top investor, and a major client for Mike to score. Mike had been more than surprised that Harvey was letting him bring in this client, that he was letting Mike take the credit when all he'd had to do was have a glass of wine to consider Mohr bagged.

"It is, yeah, skyline… Really pretty."

Mike grinned, pointing out at the skyline nondescriptly. "Verrazano Narrows bridge. Three million rivets and you can't see any of them from here, just the lights."

Mohr nodded, gripping the top of Mike's arm tightly. Mike looked down at his hand, then up at Mohr, his eyes a little confused. He tugged his arm out of Mohr's grasp, and smiled, laughing, the sound nervous and questioning.

"Are you enjoying the wine?"

"Yeah, I, it's really good, thanks," Mike said, placing his glass on the table in the middle of the enormous room (a bigger room than Mike had ever seen in a residence in the city).

"I'm, ah, I'm not much of a drinker, but. Can't say no to a nice glass of wine."

Mohr grinned. Mike couldn't put his finger on why, but the smile made him uncomfortable now -- maybe it was because Mohr had grasped his arm, but he'd endured stranger and far worse things from prospective clients.

"Stay for another."

Mike smiled a little, letting out a breathy half-laugh. Now he understood why he was uncomfortable; Mohr had gotten between him and the door, and had eliminated any chance of him leaving gracefully.

"Oh, that's… Very kind of you, Mr. Mohr, but, really, I couldn't. I've. I have to go home, I'm, I live out in Brooklyn, and."

Mohr moved closer to him, and Mike felt the air in the room change, get thicker with . He moved around the other side of the table from him, backing away, a nervous smile straining to stay on his face.

"I, sir," he said softly, but it was all he could get out before the client he was supposed to be wooing into doing business with Pearson Hardman lunged straight at him, pushing him back at the shoulders. It was only another moment before Mohr had hit him in the stomach, taken the wind right out of him, brought him down to his knees. Mike looked up at him, big blue eyes wild with confusion, with the slightly hurt look of betrayal in his eyes. He couldn't speak, could only gasp for a moment, trying to get his breath back.

"I said stay," Mohr said, his voice cold and insistent, and Mike knew he was in trouble now. He was alone with a very powerful and apparently violent man in his apartment. A man he had to keep as a client.

"You're going to do what I tell you to do," he said next. Mike shook his head. Mohr slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hands. Mike still couldn't stand, though he could speak again, sounding as though he'd just run several miles.

"You just bruised -- bruised me, no way I'm staying here, I'm -- leaving." They were tough words, Mike realized, for someone still trying to regain enough lung capacity to stand up. He did stand, though, got to his feet and scrambled backwards towards the door.

"Are you? And what would Harvey Specter say if he saw you now? Not making nice with a very important future client?"

Mike shook his head. "I've got the bruises to prove we don't want you as one."

"And I've got the money to make that go away, you little bitch."

Mike was standing with his back to the door, one hand on the knob, but he stopped to think for a second. He knew that this was potentially the most important client he could bring in. Harvey would be disappointed if he failed him again, if he didn't do everything he could to bring Mohr to Pearson Hardman. He couldn't face that look on Harvey's face again, the disappointment that said 'you're exactly the fuck-up I should have thought you were.' He couldn't face being fired for fucking up when he was so close to doing what Harvey had wanted him to do.

But it didn't matter now, because there was Mohr, up close against his body, and pressing him hard and quick into the door, his back slamming up against it roughly.

"You're going to do whatever I want," Mohr said against the side of Mike's face, his breath hot and wet and bitter with the smell of the dry red wine. "Or your firm is going to lose me, and nobody wants that, huh? Especially not the rookie they sent to reel me in, because you know who they're going to blame, mm?"

Mike nodded, closing his eyes, swallowing. He reasoned that he could still fight it, could still get out before things got any worse… But all he could think about was the look on Harvey's face when he'd realized Mike was high, after Louis had made him smoke up with Tom. All he could think about was losing his job because he'd fucked up again, losing this important client and letting everyone down. Mike couldn't live with that.

Mike didn't dare fight back against Mohr, just stayed there, breathing shakily, against the door, hands clenched in fists. Mohr had him pinned, completely stuck in more ways than just physically. Mike's eyes were wide and nervous and disbelieving -- he couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe that this could happen to him, in this situation.

The rest of the night was a blur. Mike tried to block most of it out, tried to keep the feeling of Mohr's breath on his skin, the feeling of his hands clenching around his arms, pressing into his ribs… and none of that was the worst of it. Not half as bad as the worst of it.

Mike got a cab home, body aching, shaken. He pulled off his clothes and laid down in bed, but it felt like every movement was inside a heavy fog, a thick, soupy fog that felt like the worst of being high. But Mike was grateful for it, because it brought him to sleep quickly.

_

The morning was a blur, too. It was six thirty when Mike got to work and left the papers on Harvey's desk, and then sat down at his own. He sifted through some paperwork, but it was impossible for him to focus on it. His mind kept shifting back, flashes of the previous night sending his heart racing.

By seven thirty five it was too much. He escaped to the bathroom before Louis got in to the office, before Jessica was there, before any of the partners had appeared. He splashed water on his face, tried to take deep breaths, anything to keep him from passing out. He pulled his head out of the sink and looked in the mirror.

He looked like an absolute mess. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and there was a purple bruise forming just to the left of his left eye, a sharp red cut breaking in the center of it. He sighed, hiding his face in his hands again and squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. He had a built-in excuse with the bike locked outside the building, but the red eyes and the distracted way he was thinking -- Harvey was going to know he'd fucked up somehow.

He looked back up in the mirror again, jumping when he saw Rachel's reflection over his shoulder, looking just as surprised to see him.

"Again?"

"Sorry. Sorry."

She approached him slowly, frowning a little. She leaned down to look at his eye in the mirror, since Mike couldn't stand to meet her eyes.

"What happened to you?"

"Got clipped by a taxi, I'm fine."

"On your face?"

"Yeah, on my face."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Mike's breathing got labored and frustrated then, and he nodded. "Rachel, I'm fine, I'm fucking fine, please, just. Just leave me alone."

Rachel couldn't say anything before Mike left her there in the bathroom, making his way back to his cubicle.

_

"Mike Ross."

Louis' smug rat-face was hovering above the wall of his cubicle, permanent smirk plastered to his face.

"Did you file that injunction I asked for?"

"Yeah, I--"

"Then where's my confirmation? You gotta start bringing me those right after they come in, Mike, I can't always be running around after you looking for them!"

Mike nodded, passing the paper over the wall of the cubicle. Louis nodded and wagged the paper in Mike's face, which made Mike flinch with how close it came to his face. Louis didn't notice.

As soon as his face was gone, Rachel's had appeared above the wall next to his desk. Her big brown eyes looked worried, and she passed a note over to him. "Harvey wants to see you."

Mike stood from his cubicle somewhat stiffly, opening the note as he made his way through the office to see Harvey.

Are you sure you're alright? Talk to me.
Rachel

He crumpled it and shoved it into his pocket, trying to steady himself with a deep breath before he went into Harvey's office. Harvey didn't even turn to face him before speaking to him.

"Is this the paperwork?"

"Yeah."

"How'd it go last night?"

Mike answered too quickly. "Great, went great."

Harvey caught it, and looked up, quirking and eyebrow.

"You didn't fuck up again, did you?" his tone was almost joking, almost daring Mike to make a joke about how it couldn't've gone worse. But Mike didn't really feel like making a joke about that.

"It went fine. Glass of wine, went home, brought the papers this morning."

"And the shiner over your eye is just so you look pretty for your girlfriend?"

Mike reached up self-consciously, touching his fingers to the bruise, and wincing.

"Got clipped by a cab. On my bike."

Harvey almost laughed. "You need to start being inside the cab like a regular lawyer. Nobody's going to believe you went to Harvard if you start coming in all beat up like a Law & Order victim."

Mike forced a laugh, and swallowed.

"Can I go? Louis wants me."

"Go on, get out of here."

_

It had been two weeks since Mike had scored Mohr as a client. Mohr had been into the office twice, and both times, had left looking somewhat peeved. Mike had ducked down at his desk both times, and had once been discovered hiding by Louis, who seemed to think there was some sort of spit-ball war between Mike and Gregory. Mike sort of wanted to stick a spitball on the back of Louis' stupid bald head just to make him go away.

Mike had barely slept. Every night, he laid awake for hours in bed, waiting for that same thick fog to overtake him like it had the first night. It never came. And when sleep finally did come it was interrupted by the terrible images of the night he'd gotten Mohr as a client, the night Mohr had hissed disgusting, filthy things in his ear, had hissed at him that if he told anybody, they wouldn't believe him; who'd believe an associate attorney over a powerful, rich CEO? Certainly not his bosses, not the bosses who wanted Mohr's business, his connections to possible other clients. And if Mike didn't do what he wanted, Mohr threatened he'd find him and do it again, but next time, "next time I won't be so nice."

By the time Mohr came in a third time, Mike was ready, had already overheard Donna talking to him on the phone. He had made sure he would be out serving a subpoena while Mohr was in the office.

What he hadn't counted on was to run into Mohr -- quite literally -- in a rage on his way out the door, shouting at Harvey.

"I'm taking my business elsewhere, Harvey Specter! Your firm can't seem to comply with my needs, take your counsel and shove it straight up your ass!"

Mike pinned himself back against the reception desk, the fear in his eyes absolutely evident, absolutely incredible. Donna glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Harvey stood in the doorway of his office for a moment and watched Mohr leave. Mike stayed pinned where he was for another long moment, Harvey watching him. A moment later, Harvey's hand was wrapping around his arm. Mike tugged it away quickly, eyes still wild and terrified. Harvey's didn't soften.

"My office. Now."

Harvey sat down behind his desk only moments later, and Mike stood in front of it, nearly shaking.

"You wanna tell me what you did?"

Mike bit his lip, hard, and refused to look at Harvey.

"Look at me."

"I can't."

"Mike, just tell me what happened. "

Mike stayed silent for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing with the want to tell someone, to tell Harvey, to just say it out loud.

"Is Donna listening?"

Harvey clicked a button on the intercom and Mike shivered again, hands trembling, clenched at his sides. He looked up, but still didn't meet Harvey's eyes.

"I'm so sorry," he said softly, his voice strained and aching, the look in his eyes anxious, but more than that… more than that, his eyes looked dull, tired, the way Harvey had never seen them before.

"Mike, just calm down. What happened?"

"I'm, i-it's all my fault," Mike spluttered out, feeling like his heart would break through his ribs at any moment.

Harvey's expression changed. There was a look of concern in his eyes, now, one Mike had only seen there once before. That was shortly before Harvey had gotten Trevor out of a deep hole, for Mike. Harvey had done that for Mike.

Harvey, despite Mike's attempts to avoid his gaze, wasn't letting his drop so easily.

"Mike, sit down. Tell me."

"It's all my fault he left, it's all my fault, I'm so sorry," Mike murmured, hands shaking in his lap. "He told me he would, he, I, god, Harvey, I really fucked up…"

Harvey's eyebrows were furrowed now, his gaze fixed on Mike. He moved around the desk, placing his hands on Mike's shoulders.

"Mike. You need to calm down right now and tell me what happened."

"I." Mike looked up at Harvey for the first time, and his big blue eyes filled with startled tears. Harvey was completely taken aback. He pulled him behind the desk and sat him down, worried even further by the way that Mike fought to pull out of his grasp.

"He. He knocked the wind out of me."

Harvey frowned, sitting on the top of the desk, watching Mike carefully. Mike hid his face in his hands.

"He pushed me up against the door and told me. Told. Told me nobody would believe me, I'm, I, he told me if I didn't do it we'd lose him as a client, I'm-- I f-fucked up, it's all my fault, Harvey, I…"

The rest of Mike's words were inaudible, too quiet and smashed together to be anything close to understandable. He had leaned forward, pressing his face to his knees. Harvey was completely shocked.

"He… he what?"

Harvey shook his head thinking back over the last few weeks -- the way Mohr had specifically requested that Mike handle his litigation, his contract signings, all of his legal work; the way Mike had seemed absent, distracted, jumpy… and completely exhausted, like he wasn't sleeping, even moreso than the other associates.

"It's all my fault and I'm so sorry," Mike murmured out, the sound shaky and terrifying to Harvey.

"No, no, no no no, Mike, that is not what I meant," he said urgently, his tone worried as he leaned down to try and get Mike to look at him. "That is not -- he hurt you, didn't he? Did. Did he…?"

Mike shuddered and shook his head, looking up at Harvey with sudden terror.

"Don't, don't, he… G-get him back, he's important, I'm, I, don't tell anybody."

Harvey shook his head, incredulous. He could scarcely believe that this was happening, let alone that it had happened to Mike, to this kid who could take care of himself in a lot of situations. Harvey wondered if he'd been ignoring Mike, if he really hadn't noticed that something was wrong… or if he'd been trying not to notice.

"Mike, shh, don't, we're not going to get him back, not after what he did to you, we don't want him after that."

Mike shook his head and tried to slow his breathing, his eyes wide and nervous.

"You can't tell anybody."

"No, but you can. Hospital. Now."

"But it was three weeks ago, Harvey," Mike managed, shaking his head, not mentioning how frightened he was that nobody at the hospital would believe him anyway, not mentioning how much the idea of being poked and prodded and having to be naked in front of someone else again horrified him.

Harvey shook his head. "No. Mike, this is something that needs to be done, okay? I promise we're gonna get this guy."

"You're not a prosecutor," Mike snapped, his breathing quick and terrified.

"Mike, you could have an STD, you might really have been injured."

"When the other associates find out -- when Louis finds out --"

"They won't do anything because it's illegal for you to be harassed over it." Harvey's gaze was steady, his look insistent, but he relented after a long, quiet moment filled only with Mike's rushed breathing.

"I won't make you. But you can't deal with this alone."

Mike looked up and shook his head, face crumpling with emotion. "I can't sleep, I. I can't eat. He's going to come back and do it again, he. He knows where I live, where I work…"

Harvey frowned. "Pearson Hardman will put you up in a hotel. I'll talk to Jess."

Mike shook his head, breath rattling around inside him, putting his face in his hands. "H-he'd find me. He's. He's got the money to make things d-disappear."

Harvey frowned even more deeply, shaking his head.

"Don't worry about that, Mike. We're going to fix this, okay? We're going to get him."

Mike shook his head again, running his hands into his hair and tugging at it. "You don't know that. He's. I don't even care if he gets away with it, god, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've fought him in the first--"

"Mike," Harvey said forcefully, "Stop. Just stop. I don't care about having a new client, I don't care about keeping him if." He paused. "If he's a god-damn rapist. Come on, let's get you out of here."

"No, no, I have to get back to work --"

"Mike." Harvey's face was stern, unmoving. "Come with me."

_

Mike had only seen the inside of Harvey's condo from the outside before now. He knew the condo was nice, but he could hardly look anywhere but his knees -- especially with the glass walls that made him feel even more exposed than he already did.

Harvey had been asking him to talk for nearly an hour, but Mike couldn't. He should have fought back harder and gotten away, or not at all, he thought; he should have just given in. Maybe then he wouldn't be having all this trouble sleeping, maybe then he could eat dinner without feeling ill.

He was wearing the floorboards in his apartment thin, had been for the last few weeks. He kept pacing in the middle of the night, trying to tire himself out, trying to make himself forget all the things that Mohr had grunted in his ear.

Mike had never thought of his memory as more of a curse than now.

"Mike. Tell me what happened, and I promise, you will feel better."

"Stop treating me like a witness, Harvey."

"No. You tell me everything now and it will get better."

Mike looked up at Harvey, eyebrows furrowed, gaze set. "No it won't. You're not a prosecutor, there's no evidence, he's rich --"

"And you have the DOJ and me on your side. We'll figure it out." Harvey's face was stern, but Mike had never heard him sound that gentle or caring about anything. Even in the office, he had mostly sounded shocked and angry. (Mike was just hoping that anger wasn't meant for him.)

He took a deep breath, though it was somewhat shaky, and curled his limbs up into his chair, feeling utterly childlike for it but needing that security, needing to feel a little more enclosed.

"Harvey --"

"No more excuses, Mike, you need to talk about this. It's eating you alive."

"I can't…"

"Why? Because he told you not to?" Harvey's voice was angry again, and Mike closed his eyes, running his fingers back into his hair again, roughly.

"I don't know -- yes!"

"Don't let him tell you what to do or you're sabotaging yourself, do you hear me? Tell me what happened right now or you're letting yourself lose, and I don't like losers on my team!"

Mike broke, with that. He couldn't keep his breathing steady and he shouted straight back in Harvey's face, "I had to do it! I had to to get him at the firm and he told me he wouldn't if I didnt--"

Mike faltered, shaking, and closed his eyes, clenching his fists together in his lap. Harvey kept his eyes on Mike's face, but stayed quiet for a long moment. Mike's breathing was ragged, his posture slumped down in the corner of the couch in which he sat.

"Talk to me."

Mike looked up and ran a hand back over his hair.

"Am I going to lose my job?"

Harvey frowned even more deeply. "Absolutely not. It's illegal."

Mike closed his eyes again, and hid his face in his hands, speaking quietly into them.

"He knocked me down. Knocked the wind out of me.He said he. He wouldn't come to Pearson Hardman if I didn't… didn't do what he told me to do."

Mike paused again, unable to meet Harvey's eyes, but uncovering his face, his voice slow.

"He. He pushed me up against the door, and." He swallowed, frowning. "And then he made me take off my clothes."

Harvey's eyes were closed when Mike finally looked up at him a moment later, through the tears welling up in his own. "You can't tell anybody."

"Mike, I'm not going to tell anybody. But you should go to the hospital." Harvey's voice was grave, serious, but soft, almost gentle. "You need help. And they can help you, maybe help you get Mohr."

"But there's no proof, Harvey," Mike said softly, hoarsely, his voice exasperated. He knew there was nothing they could do about this; if Mike had wanted to press charges, which he didn't, he should have gone to the hospital. He knew that.

Harvey stood from where he had sat, at a chair he'd pulled up in front of Mike, who curled his arms around his legs. He felt small, defeated. Harvey could see it in his eyes, the way he was crouched there on the sofa; Mike wasn't going to even attempt a suit over this. Harvey couldn't blame him. He knew that rape cases were difficult for the victims, and with the burden of proof resting on the prosecution (and all that proof long gone), it was more than likely that Mohr would get away with it.

"Here's what you're going to do." The words startled Mike into looking up at Harvey, who was looking straight back at him, and once they locked eyes, Mike couldn't look away. "You are going to the hospital. Just to make sure you're okay. You're going to talk to someone who's actually qualified to help."

Mike stayed still, and said nothing for a long time. Harvey just waited, patiently; he had no stomach for games, but this was different. This was Mike, the kid he'd cared enough about to give him a chance. And he couldn't help feeling responsible, in some way. The way that Mike kept apologizing, kept saying it was his fault… Harvey tried to keep the thought that he'd sent Mike into that situation out of his head, because he couldn't stand that, not when he'd tried so hard to keep Mike safe and in a position to succeed.

"I can't go by myself."

Mike's words broke Harvey out of his thoughts, and Harvey thought for a moment.

"Who else knows?"

Mike laughed, sniffing, sounding entirely miserable. "Nobody."

_

"Are you okay?"

They sat in Harvey's hired car in Brooklyn, outside of Mike's apartment. The ride home from Mercy hospital had been very quiet, with Mike fascinating himself with the Williamsburg Bridge out the window. The hospital had been as humiliating as Mike thought it would be. Harvey had sat down outside the exam room, but the terrified look in Mike's eyes told Harvey that he needed him to be there. Mike's face was still flushed from the embarrassment of being poked and prodded and having his blood drawn, being given a rapid test for HIV and being told to get tested again.

"Fine," Mike said, nodding a little, still looking out the window. Ray was standing outside, ten feet away from the car at most, talking on his cell phone to his sister.

Harvey said nothing, just watched Mike carefully. His body language still read fear, still read anxiety. He didn't want to rush Mike into talking again; it wasn't as urgent a need now.

"Why did he leave?" Mike asked softly, and Harvey looked up from the floor of the car, where his gaze had dropped to. He frowned a little, though his expression was mostly clear.

"He asked three times for you to be his primary council. I told him no."

Mike swallowed hard.

"He did?"

"It didn't seem right. Wanting a rookie associate as your primary counsel when you run a multibillion dollar corporation?" Harvey shook his head. "That isn't something anybody does. I told him no because I know you're not ready to handle a client on your own."

Mike laughed a little bitterly. "'Cause I'm a fuck-up, right?"

Harvey frowned and put a hand on Mike's shoulder, turning him gently to face him.

"You are not a fuck-up. You've already proven yourself to me."

Mike looked back out the window, sighing a little breathily. His mind still hadn't stopped working -- it never did, but it had been in overdrive since that night. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool glass of the window, waiting for a few minutes, trying to get the shake to leave his voice before he spoke again. "I'm. I'm sorry, Harvey."

"No, Mike --"

"For getting you involved in this, I. You're just my boss. You don't need this."

Harvey, despite his ever-rational demeanor and resolution to not care, felt a pang of hurt hit his heart with those words.

"But I put you in there," he said, his voice calm and casual as always, though serious. "And you need my help now. I'm not about to let you take this on alone."

Mike shook his head, smiling a little. "You never cease to amaze me. You throw me under the bus with Louis one day and h-hold my hand through a medical exam the next."

Harvey smiled a little. "You should go inside, kid. Get some rest."

Mike nodded. "Yeah… I, I have court tomorrow."

"Take the week," Harvey said with a frown. "I've got your case."

"It's pro-bono."

"Shit."

Mike laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in days, and it made Harvey smile.

"Go inside. Get some sleep. I'll talk to Jess and Louis… I'll be discreet, but I might have to tell Jessica more than you want me to. She's not going to tell anybody. Monday morning you're back on your game and you're in counseling. Got it?"

Mike nodded, taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh before he opened the door.

"Thank you, Harvey."

"I've heard that before."

_

"You're not understanding me. We're not going after Mohr as a client again."

"So explain it to me, Harvey, why exactly are we not going after a client that could bring our billable hours up by leaps and bounds?"

"I can't tell you."

"You're going to need to do a little bit better than that."

Harvey sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Conflict of interest."

"Okay, explain how."

Jessica's eyes were imploring him to say something that actually gave her a reason to trust Harvey on this issue, and Harvey knew there was no getting out of it now; he had to tell her, even though he'd promised Mike he wouldn't.

"Ross is out for the week."

"Per your request, and I'd like an explanation for that, too."

"Mohr's been requesting him as primary counsel for three weeks."

Jessica looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Not you and Ross together? Kid must've really impressed him."

Harvey sighed and frowned, feeling his guilt creeping up on him. He hoped Jessica wasn't paying enough attention to notice it, but that was a long shot when he was honest -- Jessica could read him like a book, as loathe as he was to admit it.

"Mohr assaulted him."

Jessica stood from her desk, looking alarmed, her hands flat on the desk top. She stared at Harvey for a long moment before she spoke, the urgency in her voice telling Harvey she believed him.

"That is a very serious accusation. Did Ross tell you that's what happened?"

"Yes. Three weeks ago, and he didn't tell anybody because he was afraid he'd lose Mohr off the Pearson Hardman books. Mohr threatened him."

"Is he going to press charges?"

Harvey laughed, though there was no joy in the sound, only contempt. He was usually the first to admit when he had a weak case, but this time, he didn't want to. He wanted Mohr to go away for years, wanted him to feel as violated as Mike had. Harvey knew that meant he was too attached to the kid, but he couldn't help it; if it was anybody's fault that Mike had been subjected to being sexually assaulted, it was his, because Mike really hadn't had an option. He'd had the gun to his head and he couldn't fight back, despite what Harvey had told him, and now Mike felt like it was his fault.

"No. There's no evidence."

Jessica paused. She studied Harvey's face carefully. "We're not just talking about an assault, here, are we?"

Harvey shook his head. "Sexual assault."

"And you know he's telling the truth?"

"He wouldn't jeopardize his career by lying about this, Jess."

Jessica nodded, and paused. She said nothing for a long time, and Harvey sighed heavily, his eyes trained on Jessica, who seemed to be thinking hard.

"When is he coming back to work?"

"Monday."

"He's in counseling?"

"Not yet."

"You'd better take a day."

Harvey looked up at Jessica, surprise evident on his face, and she smiled, though the expression was somewhat worried.

"I don't want him to get away with it, but Ross is your first priority tonight and tomorrow. You make sure he's getting help before he comes back to work."

Harvey nodded, and left Jessica's office feeling slightly better about the whole situation. Jessica always looked out for her own when she could. Maybe that was why Harvey felt comfortable letting her know what happened.

Louis, on the other hand, was a different story.

"What do you mean, he's out for the rest of the week? Harvey, the kid has work to do --"

"And he's taking some personal time so he can do it, Louis, do I need to spell it the hell out for you? I am your superior and I am telling you that my associate is going to be out for the week and you'd better goddamn accept it so I don't have to talk to Jessica. Again."

Louis just sat there at his desk, gaping at Harvey, and Harvey took that as an acceptance.

_

Mike still couldn't sleep. It was early morning and already he was lying awake, exhausted, sweating, staring at the ceiling of his apartment and wishing his tired mind would move away from the memories of the pain when Mohr had pushed inside of him, of the way he'd spoken down at Mike with a hiss, the way his spit had landed on Mike's face -- the way he'd pushed Mike down to the floor one last time before he signed the documents and threw the briefcase at Mike, who it narrowly missed. The way he'd told Mike he was a good fuck and to get home to Williamsburg because he couldn't stay there all night.

Mike had been having a rough go of it when it came to sleeping.

He heard a knock at his door and shivered in bed for a moment, hoping maybe he could ignore it and get back to sleep. The knocking came again, and Mike groaned softly, thinking it was probably his landlord. He pulled on a t-shirt and a dirty pair of jeans and made his way to the door, rubbing his eyes as he went.

To his surprise, it was Harvey standing there, wearing a crisp suit as always, and Mike ran a hand back over his hair, somewhat bewildered. He stepped back and let Harvey into his apartment, though he was embarrassed of how messy it was, because what else was he supposed to do with Harvey standing there, clearly waiting for him to do something?

"Have you gotten a counselor yet?"

"I'm… I only talked to you yesterday, Harvey, you're the first person-- I'm not ready to talk about it."

"You'll never be ready to talk about it unless someone wants you to talk to them." Harvey's face was firm, and Mike sighed, a little exasperated. He had been awake for hours, but he felt like he'd just woken up; Harvey liked to make him deal with things immediately, things far above his level of experience, and Mike should have guessed that this wouldn't be any different.

"Just… Christ, let me wake up for a second and then I will, okay? There's coffee in the pot, I have to get my mail."

Mike left the apartment before Harvey had a chance to stop him, breathing slow on his way down the stairs, trying to calm himself down. This was too much. He couldn't deal with this right off the bat. There were too many things going on for him to concentrate on finding a counselor right now.

Mike opened his mailbox in the dingy lobby of his building, rifling through the stack of bills he knew would be there. An envelope stuck out to him, though, because it had no official seal from any government body on it (the only mail Mike ever received, other than the bills for his grandmother's care, which also had seals on them). In fact, this envelope was blank, though there was clearly something inside.

Mike looked at the envelope all the way up the stairs, and didn't stop staring at it, brows furrowed, even when he was back inside his own apartment, door safely closed behind him. He slipped a finger under the flap to open it, and Harvey looked at him, his expression reading with the question he didn't ask out loud.

Inside the envelope, there was a letter in black pen, handwriting Mike had seen before on paperwork he'd delivered to Harvey.

If anybody knows but you, you're dead. I know where you live and I will be watching.

The note was unsigned, but Mike knew exactly where it had come from, and his eyes widened before he looked at Harvey again. Harvey stood and tugged the letter from Mike's hands. He read it quickly.

His stomach dropped, and his guilt overtook him for a moment. He put Mike in a room with one of the most powerful men in the world and told him he had to close the deal, and his actions had gotten Mike raped. He could barely stand it. "Is there anything on the envelope?"

"N-No -- Harvey, if he's--"

"He probably only sent it to scare you." Harvey's face remained grave, and the words didn't comfort Mike in the slightest. They didn't really comfort Harvey, either.

"I… What do we do?"

Harvey sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing at them with his thumb and index finger again. Mike had never seen him look so worried.

"You need to tell me the story. In full. Beginning to end. You need to get used to saying it because you're going to be telling it a lot."

"But there's no--"

"This is the proof, Mike. He made a mistake by sending this to you."

Mike shook his head, dropping the envelope on the floor, running his fingers into his hair. "It's not signed, Harvey, they, they're not going to believe me, he's -- What am I supposed to do if he gets off?"

"We get an order of protection or a restraining order. And if he violates it, he goes to jail anyway."

Mike looked at Harvey, who looked confident in this plan, and it made him feel a little better. If Harvey thought it would work, then it would. Mike knew enough about Harvey, and Harvey knew enough about the legal system.

_

Harvey couldn't have left Mike alone in his apartment, not after that letter arrived. Mike was supposed to be researching a counselor, but he couldn't sit still in his own apartment, pacing nervously and telling Harvey he wanted to get out of there. He was scared, and Harvey didn't blame him. (Harvey didn't blame anybody but Mohr and himself for that.)

Mike sat down with Harvey in the wide-open glass-walled living room of his apartment, a list of support groups and therapists in front of them. Harvey really wasn't sure he wanted to do this. It was too much personal contact; not that Harvey had stayed nearly as objective as he would have liked to, with Mike, but this… this felt intimate.

Mike called a group and a therapist, and made appointments, and promised to be at the next group meeting. He looked exhausted just from doing that, just from breathing, but Harvey knew better. Mike could handle a lot of things, and this was going to be one of them if Harvey had anything to say about it. He owed it to Mike.

"Appointment made… now we make our case."

"Harvey, I…"

"He threatened you, kid, that gives us a case already."

"So why?"

"Why what?"

"W-why do I have to tell the story again?"

Harvey paused, and looked at Mike. There was a deep pain there, a sudden, fresh pain. Mike hadn't talked about it to anybody. Harvey knew that. But he supposed he hadn't thought about it; the wound being open for so long, starting to fester, and then Harvey, pouring a sharp disinfectant over it. It would hurt in a whole new way, he realized, and Harvey felt even more guilty for that. He sat down in front of Mike the way he had the day previous, and smiled, just a little, in a gentle, worried way that Mike had never seen. (Mike hadn't seen a lot of Harvey's expressions; usually his face was a smooth mask of suave indifference, and that was how Harvey liked it. But when Harvey had to care, when he didn't have a choice -- when his heart wouldn't stay quiet the way he usually forced it to -- it showed on his face.)

"Because they're going to want to know why he's threatening you."

Mike sighed, heavily, rubbing over his face with the palms of his hands. Harvey knew that look. Mike didn't want to do this, and he knew it. But he wasn't about to let Mohr get away with it, either.

"This son of a bitch needs to be taught the lesson that just because you're rich doesn't mean you're allowed to violate someone."

Mike took a shaky breath, looked up at Harvey for reassurance, and nodded.

"He. I had one glass of wine, like. Like you told me to. And I was looking out the window."

Harvey nodded, hesitating. He wanted to take Mike's hand. Normally, Harvey did what he pleased and cared fuck-all about the consequences. But this was something that had to get fixed. He took Mike's hand anyway, and Mike seemed to shrink at first, like he didn't want to exist. But his voice was stronger when he next spoke.

"He asked me to stay for another but I told him I had to get home, and. And he punched me."

"Where?"

"Stomach," Mike said, covering his abdomen with one arm, like he was expecting the punch again. Harvey knew he remembered what had happened in minute detail, down to the physical feelings, which were no doubt gripping him. Harvey felt even more guilty for that, and squeezed Mike's hand gently. "Go on."

"It, it knocked the wind out of me. And I stayed there on the floor trying to. To catch my breath, and he said, 'I said stay'. A-and then he hit me when I shook my head."

Mike's fingers traveled up to his face, where the bruise had been purple for two days, and then turned an ugly yellow. Harvey remembered it, vividly -- the black-red scab sticking in the middle of it for more than two weeks. There was a little indented scar that Mike ran his stubby fingernail into, as though he was trying to pull the skin back up to cover the scar.

"'You're going to do what I tell you to do,'" Mike murmured, and then he shook his head. "But I told him I would just. Just show you the bruises, and I got up to leave and."

Mike paused, and Harvey squeezed his hand harder. Mike's voice trembled when he next spoke. "And he made me think about how disappointed you would be if I fucked up again. A-and then he pressed me up against the door…" Mike's eyes were closed tightly, and Harvey could tell he was fighting something like a flashback, just talking about it.

"You can do this. What then?"

"Made me take my clothes off."

Harvey frowned, the lines near his eyes deep and anxious just listening to Mike talk.

"And then?"

"He. H-he fucked me."

Harvey shook his head, reaching up to put both hands on Mike's shoulders, wishing he'd open his eyes. He needed Mike to know how sorry he was. Mike could hear it in his voice.

"He raped you, Mike."

Mike swallowed back a sob that had been building in his throat and shook his head.

"Yes. He did. He violated you and it is not your fault."

Harvey could scarcely contain his sadness at the way Mike crumbled in front of him, at the way he was barely able to keep it together -- at the way he was struggling to be strong in front of Harvey, because Harvey was always strong, and Mike didn't want to let him down.

"When I told you that there's always another option when someone holds a gun to your head -- sometimes. Sometimes there just isn't, Mike. Sometimes things happen and the only person to blame is the person holding the gun and the person that put you in the room with them."

Mike shook his head suddenly, looking up, but Harvey shushed him efficiently.

"I put you there. I put that idea in your head, that I would be disappointed. I had a gun to your head, too."

The sudden collapse of Mike's slender, warm body into his arms was about the last thing that Harvey Specter expected. He was stiff, for a moment, not knowing how to respond to it -- not knowing if he could really comfort Mike to make his body stop shaking, not knowing if he was even allowed to comfort him. But after a few seconds, he realized what was wrong; Mike didn't have anybody. His grandmother was in a high level of care at her nursing home, his parents were dead, and his only friend outside the office, he'd put on a bus to Montana.

Harvey's arms acted of their own accord, then, and wrapped around Mike's shoulders, pulling him close to him. He didn't know how to be this nice with anybody, really, only the people the cared about more deeply than he ever could have admitted.

And, not once did Harvey think about the tearstains that he would later dry-clean out of his suit jacket. For once, his suit didn't matter one bit.

2.5

somnallocution — Tue, 24 May 2011 07:26:39 GMT

Cristiano had done better these last few days. He had eaten when they'd told him to, as much as it had pained him to force the food into his system. He'd had a stomach ache but didn't complain, just curled into his bed.

He was terrified of gaining weight -- of what he must look like. Cris hadn't seen his own face in months. He knew he must be horribly ugly -- too skinny but not skinny enough, and his face had to be tired and gaunt from the lack of nutrition, his cheeks hollowed, the circles deep under his eyes. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but during his small meal two weeks after Ruud had come back, he broke down in tears in his room, shaking his head.

"I can't, I can't…"

"Cristiano," the nurse who had been attending to him said, her voice frustrated, irritated, "you need to eat. You were doing so well, just eat."

Cristiano shook his head, pushing the food away from himself. "No, no, I can't," he said softly, the tone in the nurse's voice making him feel worse.

"I'm. C-can I see Ruud?" he asked, pleading, the woman, who was much larger than himself, much stronger -- looked like she could snap Cristiano's arms in half with one motion -- who put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes.

"You can see him after you've eaten."

Cristiano's breathing quickened, and he shook his head. "I-I can't, don't you understand? I-I'm, I'm already so ugly, I-I just need to see Ruud, I-I…" He swallowed, pressing a few bony fingers to his eyes, trying to stop the tears from slipping past, trying to be good, trying desperately to be good. If he couldn't be good, he had nothing going for him -- he wasn't beautiful or smart. He had to be good.

"P-please, I just want to see him."

The nurse rolled her eyes again and told Cristiano to wait, and left the room. Cris stared at the plate, at the food on it, fingers trembling. He picked up the plate, skeletal arms carrying it across the room to the trash, placing half of the food in the bin. It was too much, no matter how little there was.

It was nearly half an hour before Ruud was in the doorway, looking worried. The other nurse hadn't followed him back to Cristiano's room, and Cris was grateful for that; he didn't like her one bit, the way she blatantly looked at his bones, at his skin. He wanted to shout at her, I know I'm ugly and falling apart, stop looking at me!

Ruud stepped into the room, looking somewhat haggard and overworked. Cris knew he had picked up more shifts, that he always tried to come on his breaks and usually made it for at least a few minutes. He sat down on the bed next to Cristiano, looking down at the plate in his hands, half of the food missing.

"Are you alright, kleintje?"

Cris nodded, looking at the fork in his hand. He could see his reflection in the shining metal, and though it was stretched and distorted by the curves of the silverware, he knew he looked horrible, knew he was the ugliest patient in the ward. All the other boys were beautiful -- sad, thin, falling apart, but beautiful all the same. Cris wasn't. He was a piece of newspaper in the rain, shredding itself to pieces, ink running, pictures fading to a mess of grey smudges. That's what Cris was. A grey smudge in the mirror.

"W-what does that word mean?"

"What -- kleintje?"

Cris nodded. Somehow, he had never asked what it meant before. He hoped it meant something nice -- hoped that Ruud thought nice things about him, even when he wasn't around.

"It. It means little one, in Dutch… you say it to someone you care about." Ruud smiled a little sadly and reached up to touch the back of Cris' head gently.

"I say it to you because you are one of the most important people in my life."

Cris bit his lip, closing his eyes. He could feel himself shaking all over again. He wanted to be good, but not because he felt he had to. He wanted to be good for Ruud because he loved Ruud… and he wanted Ruud to keep loving him back.

He pushed a mouthful of food onto his fork, looking at it for a moment before he placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly, thoroughly, his eyes closed. It felt too thick, like he could never swallow it, but he did, forced it down and looked up at Ruud, who had happy tears stuck in his eyes.

"Danke je, fraaiheid…" he said softly. Cristiano looked up at him with nervous eyes, clearly questioning, and Ruud smiled wider, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

"Thank you, beauty."

--

Cesc was lying back on the couch in Henry's office. His eyes were closed. He was exhausted. He had spent an hour telling Henry everything, opening up to him for the first time since he had been at the hospital. He couldn't look at Henry, not with the appraising glances he was sure would be stuck all over the doctor's face at the way he talked of war.

Cesc told Henry how it felt to walk past the bodies of children on the streets and feel his heart scream, but keep a stone face. He told him what it felt like to be told he was going home to his mother, how he had wanted desperately to break down and cry but had kept his eyes strong and solid in the face of his commanding officer. He told him what it had felt like to be dropped into combat, how his fingers had shaken on the trigger of his gun for days.

He cried, in Henry's office. The tears had run down his face, his voice had faltered several times, but he had pressed on, told Henry how tight his chest felt, how full he felt with feelings and tension. How letting them out would have been the worst thing he could do, in the army. How he would have been discharged for Conduct Unbecoming of An Officer, if he had asked for therapy or to be taken out of combat. How they couldn't spare any bodies on the front line.

Bodies. They had called them bodies even though they were still alive, he told Henry, his voice just as shocked as his mind had been the first time someone had said that, had called him a body. He told Henry how afraid he had been to die, how terrifying the desert had been -- stretching out endlessly, too bright but dark, somehow, too.

Henry had listened silently, only gently encouraging Cesc very softly, and only when Cesc would stop, would falter.

They had run over time nearly an hour ago when Cesc finally stopped, when he was empty, his voice hoarse and broken but, for the first time since he had been in the hospital, Henry could see a tired smile on Cesc's face, one that had no forced expression beneath it.

Henry sent Cesc back to his room, knowing that he needed to sleep, that he could be nothing less than falling apart. But he didn't allow Cesc to leave his office without placing both hands on his shoulders, choosing his words deliberately and saying them firmly, proudly.

"You are so brave, peu une, to tell me all of that, to finally let me see it all the way you have. To let down your armor."

Cesc had smiled sleepily and Thierry thought it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, walking Cesc back to his room in silence.

From there, he went to King Eric's office. He knocked on the door, softly, and swallowed at the deep, french voice that responded. "Entrez."

Thierry stood in the doorway for all of one second before sitting himself in front of Eric's desk, looking at his hands the way Dimitar had not a week earlier. "You were right."

Eric raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "What have you discovered, Thierry?"

"I forgot why I wanted to do this. I don't know how you knew, but you did -- you told me to do the job I have not done in at least a year. It is my job to listen. And for a long time, I heard, but I didn't understand, you know? I didn't understand."

Eric nodded, tenting his fingers.

"And do you now?"

"That boy. The soldier. He opened up his heart and showed me every chamber."

Eric nodded, hesitating invisibly for a moment before standing and moving around the desk, standing before Thierry, whose eyes were still fixed on his lap. He placed a strong hand on Thierry's shoulder heavily, smiling.

"You understand once again."

--

Ryan had gone weeks without a panic attack. Paul was proud, more proud than he ever could have told Ryan. Ryan seemed proud, too -- the smile on his face, his last day in the hospital, as Paul helped him fold up his things, was genuine. It was shining and perfect and properly sunshiny, and Paul couldn't stop smiling, himself, not looking at that.

Ryan had spent his last night in the hospital, was rested and, though he seemed to be nervous, it was a different kind of feeling that filled the room. Paul could feel the nervous energy filling the room, but it was pleased. Excited. Ryan looked up from the small pile of clothes he had just placed in his suitcase, eyes resting on Paul, who stood at the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching Ryan.

Ryan grinned at him, straightening. Paul grinned back.

"Are you nervous to go out there again?"

Ryan nodded, still smiling. "A little. I don't want it to have changed too much… but," he said softly, his voice even and steady. "Doctor Ferguson. He's letting me come back to work part-time. I'm going to be a nurse again… as long as I'm on my medication." He paused, looking back at his suitcase, nodding a little. "He's going to help make sure I take it."

Paul took Ryan to therapy -- his last therapy session. Ryan asked Paul to stay, his big brown eyes hopeful like they had never been before everything had fallen into place. Paul had sat down next to him, and Ryan had taken his hand for a moment, squeezing tightly before letting Paul's hand rest on his own knee. Paul had swallowed, and then smiled widely, reaching to pat Ryan on the back, the touch more than gentle.

"So, Ryan," King Eric's voice boomed in the room, clean white pad in front of him, hand poised with a pen, Ryan's chart open on the long, shiny wooden table that sat in the stately looking room where his final therapy session -- the one to sign him off -- was being held. "Let us start with your anxiety levels. Are you feeling anxious about returning to work?"

Ryan took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, before meeting Eric's, his voice confident.

"Yes. But mostly, I am excited. Excited to be able to help people again, the way you all have helped me -- to help my own patients get back to their lives."

Eric nodded, smiling. "Perfectly normal."

They talked for some time, about Ryan's medical history and his boss, Doctor Ferguson, who had, of course, been as supportive as he ever could have been in this situation. Eric made sure that Ryan was aware that if he stopped taking his medication, Ferguson would inform them, and Ryan had smiled, that brilliant smile that Paul couldn't look away from whenever it graced that lovely tanned face, and he raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I'll be going off of my medication again, King Eric," he said, quietly, but earnest, honest. "This is the best I've felt since I was a boy."

Eric, with Paul's quiet, unobtrusive, but firm input, had worked out a therapy schedule with Ryan. He would visit twice a week.

Paul could scarcely believe he was leaving; that this was the same man, though there was certainly that sweetness still in him. Paul could feel his confidence starting to fill the room, and he couldn't help smiling, despite how much he'd miss Ryan.

Miss him. Paul was going to miss him.

--

Eric had known that this day would be eventful when he'd woken up. He had scheduled Ryan's therapy for the morning; Nemanja's for around noon; Cesc's for the afternoon. Today was a day where a weight would be lifted from Eric's shoulders, and from his patients'; today was a day when they would go free.

Ryan had been doing well. Eric was unconcerned about his recovery. Ryan seemed well aware that if he needed to come back, he was always welcome. Eric knew Paul would be insisting on keeping in touch just by the look in his eye, despite his calm, understated demeanor. Eric knew better; Paul cared deeply for Ryan.

Nemanja's recovery had weighed on Eric's mind since the first time he had seen the man -- the man who was truly, in some ways, still a boy inside -- react negatively to something. He had known it would be a difficult road, but with the way Rio had smiled as they sat down in his final session -- nevermind the way Nemanja had smiled, surely the first time Eric had seen it anything but defeated or slightly sinister -- Eric knew that Rio's suggestion had been warranted.

"Therapy three times a week, Nemanja, yes?"

"Yes. Sir?"

Eric looked at him, his gaze questioning, but not firm.

"You can call me Nema."

Eric smiled when Rio did, and nodded. "Very well. Nema. Three times a week. And you'll be living in a halfway house for the first six months."

Nemanja nodded, and took a deep breath. "And… Rio told me I can come back if I think I am going to start to lose control of my anger again."

Eric nodded.

After an hour of speaking with Nemanja -- whose demeanor had vastly improved -- Eric signed the form to release him.

Rio helped Nema pack, smiling a little sadly. He laughed, though, at the way Nemanja chattered softly about the job Rio had found for him -- an assembly job, working on cars. Nemanja liked to work with his hands, Rio had discovered through many long talks while he bandaged up Nemanja's hands, from various injuries.

He saw Nemanja to the front door of the hospital, the cab that the hospital had already paid for and given instructions to idling in the loop at the front of the building. Nema held his only suitcase at his side, looking off to one side a bit awkwardly, smiling sheepishly.

"This is it, bruv," Rio said, smiling, eyebrows raised. "You're free to get the hell outta here."

Nema nodded, laughing a little. He hesitated. He wasn't sure he was ready for this; it was too soon, there were too many things that might set him off in the real world.

"You'll be fine," Rio said, seeming to read his thoughts. "Just keep your nose clean, 'ey, Nema?"

Nema nodded, smiling at Rio, and sighing firmly. "Right."

They said goodbye, and Nema pushed his suitcase into the cab before himself, sitting down in the backseat. He paused, the door still open, and, suddenly, stood quickly from the seat, practically launching himself at Rio, who was still stood very close to the door. He wrapped his arms tight around him, eyes squeezed closed. He couldn't help the feelings that had welled up inside him -- the love for Rio, for all that he'd done to keep Nemanja from killing someone; to get him out, knowing how to deal with his anger better than he ever had in his life.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Rio's strong, muscular arms just as tight around Nemanja. When they finally parted, and Nema stepped into the cab, it was with the knowledge that they'd see each other again the next week.

In the afternoon, Cesc's final meeting went smoothly. He seemed amiable, unstressed; Eric couldn't recall seeing the young soldier the way he was now since he had arrived at the hospital. The best way that Eric could have described it was that Cesc appeared to be thinking simply. Unfussed, not upset about Eric and Henry's insistence that he leave the army (though Eric had already contacted his regimen, and Cesc would be honorably discharged).

But what was more surprising to Eric was the way Thierry really did seem changed; he smiled through the appointment, touching Cesc's shoulder affectionately, the way Eric hadn't seen him with a patient in years. The way he seemed to look forward to twice-a-week sessions with Cesc; it warmed Eric's heart. It let him know that Thierry still had one in there, under all that charming french veneer and smarmy, handsome outward appearance.

Cesc had gone back to his room to gather his things -- the photos of his family being the last things placed into his suitcase -- and to say goodbye to Yoann.

Yoann was curled on his bed, watching Cesc pack, smiling sadly at him every time Cesc glanced his way. When Cesc was finished, all his things neatly in his duffel bag, he sat down on Yoann's bed next to him, lost for words for a few moments, playing with his hands in his lap.

"I don't know how to thank you."

Yoann's expression read bashful confusion for a moment, but Cesc grinned and shook his head.

"Don't look at me like that… I never could have told him if it weren't for you."

Yoann swallowed hard and blinked quickly. He had known this goodbye was coming, ever since he had woken Cesc that night, but it didn't make it any easier; nor was it made easier by the number of goodbyes Yoann had had to say. It would never get easier, Yoann had decided. It would never be easy to say goodbye to someone who listened even though he couldn't speak.

Cesc put his arms around Yoann, who was sitting now, each pair of eyes filling with tears. Cesc cried audibly in Yoann's arms, and for a few moments, Yoann just shook.

The softest sob escaped him then, in a voice he had heard only sparingly. Soft, but audible, to both Cesc and Yoann. Cesc squeezed him tighter, though no more sounds came out of him, and then pulled back to look at him, both faces tearstained, both sets of fingers trembling.

"You're going to get out of here someday," Cesc said softly, and looked Yoann dead in the eye. Yoann tried to look away, but Cesc held his face gently between two shaking hands, shaking his head. "You're going to, and then you're going to come and see me. B-but I promise I'll be back before then. I'll come to visit you."

Yoann nodded and swallowed hard again, burying his face against Cesc's shoulder. The two of them looked up to see Henry at the door to escort Cesc out.

Down the hall, Dimitar was signing halfway house forms for Kaka. Cesc smiled at him on his way out, and Dimitar smiled back, seeming happier than he had been in weeks.

--

Sergio looked out the window at the young soldier -- former soldier, he corrected himself -- getting into the cab downstairs. He watched him hug his doctor and get into the cab, looking at his old room, where Sergio had no doubt the mute boy was standing at the window, waving.

There was nobody living with Sergio that he would wave to when he left. He wished he could leave now, go get anything to make the sinking feeling -- the feeling that darkness was closing in on him from within -- disappear. He wished he could shoot up, could bang back a rock of cocaine the size of his thin, gaunt fist.

Even the boy who had tried to kill himself, to escape the hell that had ensnared Sergio, that wound itself around him, strangled him but never killed him -- even he was leaving soon. Even he was smiling again, saying hello to other patients and laughing at jokes, and, even if it was softly, less forcefully than before, was professing his love for God again.

"You will have your day, little one," came a deep voice from the doorway. Sergio turned to find King Eric there, but his expression -- empty, tired -- didn't change.

"I don't want a day like that, where everything is all better," he said softly, shaking his head. "I want a day of my own. I want a day when I can leave and push so much into my veins and my nose and take so many pills that I don't feel anything anymore."

Eric smiled, and, if Sergio had had the energy, he would have lunged at him for it.

"Do you think it is all better for Cesc? Or for Nemanja, or Ryan?"

Sergio just stared at him, expression blank, unseeing. "Isn't that the point of this place?"

"We all feel pain, Sergio." Eric stepped into the room a little further, looking out the window, standing next to Sergio and sighing. "I feel pain every day. For the ones I couldn't save, for the ones I could that I have lost to time."

Sergio gazed out the window again at the gathering clouds on the horizon, at the pink-tinged sky that disappeared over the field where there were boys playing football.

"Then what is the point of living, if it's all pain? What's the point for me when I feel nothing but darkness? For Cristiano, when he can't look in the mirror without hating himself a little more? For Yoann, when he can't speak, when his voice won't work because there is too much pain stopping it up?"

Eric laughed, shaking his head.

"But don't you see, Sergio? Those things are a part of life."

Sergio shook his head, and looked at Eric. "The only part."

"No," Eric said softly, looking at Sergio, eyes bright, seeming to look straight through into Sergio's soul. Sergio had never known that he had one, but there in the half-light from the sunset, with those piercing dark eyes looking into him, he could feel it, feeble and broken, rising to the surface.

"Don't you see? The good is nothing without pain." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked out at the blood red sun, setting over the edge of a distant deep blue field.

"Our pain makes our joy real."

PECTUS PECTORIS. part two: after

somnallocution — Tue, 24 May 2011 07:26:03 GMT

Every hall had been quiet since mid-morning.

The moment that news had spread that Ricardo -- Kaka, they all kept thinking, poor Kaka; who was perhaps the happiest patient in the hospital -- had tried to kill himself, every ward had gone quiet with worry. Even Jose, the loudest of all the patients, was silent with grief.

Ruud had taken it the worst, though all the nurses were shocked by what had happened. Ruud had spent some time sitting in the staff changing rooms, trying not to let the tears prickling behind his eyes fall onto his knees, where his eyes were fixed -- wide, unblinking, blank. Paul had patted him on the shoulder, worriedly, before he went to see to Ryan -- Kaka had always been friendly to Ryan. Paul knew it would have been a shock to him, and Ruud didn't want the sympathy, anyway.

The rest of the day went by in a haze. Ruud went to see Cris, who was a nervous wreck in his room. He had gained a little bit of weight, and that had made him anxious, but news of Kaka's attempt couldn't have done anything to improve the situation, either. Cristiano looked haggard, worried, and certainly hadn't eaten that day.

"Ruud," Cris said softly, his voice strained from want to cry. Ruud could hear the tears in his voice, and it broke his heart all over again.

"Ruud, will Kaka be okay?"

Ruud smiled and nodded a little. "They'll take good care of him, kleintje," he said softly, reaching out to brush Cristiano's hair back from his face.

Cristiano's eyes read nothing but worry, pain, fear. Ruud hated to see him that way. He was sure what he was about to tell Cris would hurt him even more, but he had to tell him -- the only other option was to leave without saying goodbye.

"Cris," Ruud said softly, sitting down on his bed, glancing at the seat next to him so that Cristiano would sit, too. He did, after a momentary confused look.

"My cousin," he said softly, voice pained and filled with tears, "was a schizophrenic." He didn't look up at Cristiano, couldn't have looked at him -- the sympathy he knew would be there in those beautiful brown eyes was something he couldn't face.

"He killed himself when I was sixteen," Ruud said, voice barely above a whisper. Cristiano said nothing, but slipped his thin fingers into Ruud's large hand, holding it. Ruud couldn't hold the tears in any longer, could feel them drip down his face and off of his chin. Cristiano let out a soft "oh," leaning forward and wiping the tears from beneath Ruud's eyes with desperately gentle thumbs.

"I-I'm telling you this, because…" Ruud's voice faltered. "Because I think I have to go away, for a little while. I-I need to clear my h-head."

Cristiano nodded, smiling a little sadly. Ruud knew that the moment he looked into Cris' eyes he would start to cry again. It hurt his heart to even think of leaving Cris there. He knew that he would be in good hands, that the nurses and his doctor would take care of him… but there was a sinking feeling in his chest anyway. He needed Cris as much as Cris needed him.

"You came to say goodbye," Cris said softly, the sad smile in his voice unmistakeable. Ruud looked up, and there were tears in Cristiano's eyes, threatening to drop at any moment. Ruud placed his large hands on Cris' cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away before they could get too far.

"You need to promise me that you will still be alright when I come back," Ruud said, voice urgent, soft.

Cristiano buried his face in Ruud's shoulder, his soft words ("Eu te prometo, I promise, Ruud…") muffled by the fabric of Ruud's shirt and his own sobs.

--

Ryan had spent a good deal of time with Scholesy now. Ryan didn't feel anxious when Paul was around, when he came to talk to him in his room or in the lounge. Ryan felt like he could be getting better, like he could continue with his plan to go to Africa, as long as he could keep on going the way he was.

It was only a few days after Kaka's suicide attempt, though, that Ryan was so anxious again that he could hardly get out of bed. Ryan's whole body felt tense and stressed, and the atmosphere in the hospital didn't help. Every patient had been affected, it seemed to Ryan -- the dysmorphia patients had lost their nurse for a week. The schizophrenia patients were all shaken up -- even the ones who were lucid enough to know that they wouldn't be affected the same way by their medication, necessarily.

Ryan was glad when Scholesy came to see him, though he was still curled up tightly in his bed.

"Alright, Giggs?" Paul asked gently. That was something only Scholesy had ever called him. The way he said it was so affectionate, so caring… Ryan couldn't feel anxious about that.

He rolled over and looked up at Paul, smiling, a real smile. "Yeah," he said softly, but wrung his hands together. Paul sat down and placed a hand on Ryan's knee.

"He's going to be alright," Paul said softly. Ryan stared at his hands, cracking his joints gently, biting his lip. "Don't worry about Kaka, alright? He's in good hands. King Eric is looking after him, yeah?"

Ryan nodded a little, closing his eyes. He could feel his heartbeat thudding against his chest.

"I just. Can't stop thinking about it," he said softly, running his hands back over his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. "That poor boy," he said, voice quiet and tight.

Paul leaned forward, smiling a little, tipping Ryan's chin up gently. "I know, love. But he'll be alright, okay? Try to focus on that."

They talked a little while longer. Paul tried to make Ryan smile, and Ryan did -- only Scholesy could make Ryan smile despite his tension. They talked about nothing, about football, about how well Ryan had been doing before the incident. Once Paul had him smiling, his face was even -- not grave, but serious -- and he touched Ryan's hand.

"King Eric wants you to have a roommate," he said softly, his voice almost delicate. He didn't want to startle Ryan. They had tried this before, with rather disastrous results; Ryan had been so nervous about sleeping in the same room as someone else, he had instead fallen asleep hiding in the nurse's station, tear tracks clear against his pink cheeks when he was found.

Ryan bit his lip, but then smiled, though it was a nervous expression, and nodded. "Of course."

--

"Sergio."

The voice was very soft over Sergio's head. It had been some time (Sergio couldn't tell exactly how long) since the schizophrenic patient that everyone seemed to know had tried to kill himself. Sergio felt for him -- he was sure from experience that all the boy wanted was to be left alone to die.

He'd mostly detoxed, had spent several days feeling better physically. He could practically feel the blood running faster in his veins, feel his eyes less stuck with sleep every morning he was clean. He couldn't deny that he felt better.

"Sergio."

The voice came again, a little louder, trying to wake him up, he was sure. Sergio was already awake, he just didn't want to be.

Sergio didn't care that his blood was running faster and thinner without all the drugs he'd pushed and pulled into himself running with it. He didn't care that his head wasn't throbbing anymore, felt clear and even. He didn't care that he wasn't withdrawing anymore -- he wanted more drugs.

"Sergio."

Sergio opened his eyes, which were clear, but sad. Like he had given up. It was the nurse in the lavender scrubs, Iker, the one who had come around at least once a week to see if he was alright.

"Buenos días," he said softly, smiling down at Sergio. Sergio smiled back, sitting up slowly. Iker grinned even wider at him now, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your eyes look so much clearer, mi'jo." Iker's voice was always kind, always sweet -- Sergio didn't wonder why he worked with children. He seemed so loving. Sergio was counting on it, at that moment.

"I-I feel better," Sergio murmured softly, moving closer to where Iker sat on the bed. He had pulled his knees up to his chest, eyes wide, deep brown and soft as they looked at Iker. "Gracias."

"Oh, no, Sergio… you were very brave. I wouldn't want to go through what you've been through in the last few days…" Iker smiled, his eyes a little worried. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Sergio bit his lip, looking away from Iker now. He didn't expect that, didn't expect that anyone would care about what happened to him.

"C-can I go now? I'm, I want to go home."

Iker frowned a little uneasily at him, and Sergio closed his eyes tightly. It didn't look good for him, not with that expression spreading across Iker's face. He just wanted to go back to the apartment where he had been staying, wanted to do a few lines of cocaine and relax. If he felt like it, maybe he would pump himself full of heroin and go to sleep, and never wake up.

"The doctors are very worried about you, Sergio," came Iker's voice again, very softly. Sergio shook his head, tears leaking out from underneath his eyelids.

"¿Por qué no todos entienden?" he asked hoarsely, refusing to open his eyes for a long moment before fixing his dark, pained eyes on Iker's warm, startled ones.

"What -- what do you mean, pequeño?"

"W-why don't you understand," Sergio murmured again, his voice cracking and breaking with every other word, "that I just want to feel better or die?"

A sob wracked Sergio's slender body, his arms, which had begun to heal nicely, coming up so that Sergio could press the heels of his hands to his eyelids.

Iker leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sergio's shoulders, pulling him into his chest. Sergio stayed slumped there for a few moments before pushing back from Iker, angrily.

"N-no! Don't, don't pretend that you care what h-happens to me because as soon as I'm o-out that door you couldn't give a f-fuck if I just j-jumped off a bridge!"

Iker drew back a little, and just looked at Sergio for a few moments, worrying his bottom lip. His eyes were fixed on the way Sergio hunched, the way angry tears flowed out of him, the way he seemed ready to fight Iker now.

"I-I want to see whoever is in charge."

--

Nemanja had tried to keep his temper under control, and so far, it had been working. He had had a few minor outbursts, but he, like the rest of the hospital, had been relatively quiet. Kaka's suicide attempt had made his heart sink -- nobody in the hospital had been less likely, in Nemanja's eyes, to try to kill himself; the boy had always been so cheerful. (Truth be told, he seemed to be the only patient in the hospital that didn't avoid Nemanja at all cost.)

The minor outbursts wouldn't have been minor in anyone else. He turned over a table at dinner -- but nobody else had been sitting at the table, and he hadn't hurt anyone. Rio had talked him down, and he'd felt better. Another time, he had put a dent in the wall of his room with his head. Rio had cleaned him up, and tried to keep him calm -- had managed to make him breathe slowly, slow his heart rate.

Rio had looked tired lately, to Nemanja. Ever since Kaka had tried to kill himself, Rio had been working double shifts, one in Nemanja's ward, and one in the ward with the body dysmorphia patients. His eyes had looked less lively, his laugh had seemed more forced and hoarse. Nemanja didn't like it.

He had been lonely since Rio had been working in the other ward; he'd been on the night shift in Nemanja's ward for a few days now, and rarely would the other nurses speak to him. Even his doctor, Henry, had barely had time to see him; had been counseling his patients' on their grief, but hadn't really had time for Nemanja, especially not now that he had been quiet for several days.

Nemanja waited and waited and waited, but he could scarcely stay calm anymore. He would sit for hours trying to breathe slowly, like Rio had taught him, in his room, even in the common area. But still his heart rate kept rising, his breathing kept getting shorter and shorter.

Now, he sat in the common area, listening to a tourettes patient muttering obscenities under his breath. Rooney was speaking softly, at first, then at full voice; finally, he was nearly shouting, and no nurses could hear him -- or they were ignoring him. Nemanja couldn't take it anymore.

"Fuckin' what, fuckin' what!" Rooney kept shouting, and Nemanja finally stood from his seat quickly, blood beginning to boil, pupils dilating sharply. Everything was red for the first time in weeks, and before Nemanja could even process what was happening, he could feel the burn of the anger in his hands, which had locked around Rooney's arms, and he was shaking him, relentlessly.

He closed his eyes, desperate to come down from the adrenaline rush to his system, but it wasn't working. He could feel his lips moving, knew he would be muttering in Serbian now, and could vaguely recognize the words -- "Prestani rekao da!" ("Stop saying that!") -- but couldn't stop them. He could feel his grip loosening on Rooney's arms, could feel an orderly's arms around his waist.

He was trying, now, like he had never tried before. He clamped his mouth shut, though he was still holding onto Rooney's arms, forced himself to breathe slower, to breathe through his nose. The redness in the corners of his eyes was going away, but the hands around his waist only got more insistent, pulling him off of Rooney.

"Put him in solitary," he heard shouted behind him, and he shook his head, accented voice speaking in English again. "No, no, I'm sorry…"

Doctor Henry was suddenly in the room, brow furrowed, looking at Nemanja. Nemanja looked back at him, shaking his head, hands falling away from Rooney's arms. "Doctor," he said softly, shaking his head. Henry frowned a little, and backed up from Nemanja.

"Solitary."

Nemanja slumped against the arms around him, eyes locked shut, and tried to keep breathing slowly.

--

Kaka's face was stained with tears, his eyes stuck shut with them. He went in and out of consciousness, tears leaking out from underneath his eyelids every time he was awake.

He could feel the bandages around his wrists, collecting the blood and sticking to it. There were no voices. God didn't say a single thing to him, didn't tell him it would be alright -- didn't come back even after he had tried to find him.

Kaka was alone, utterly alone, for the first time in his life.

But he wasn't alone, not really; he was constantly being watched. Doctor Henry (and, though he had never seen him watching, Doctor Berbatov) had been watching him, and nearly all the nurses, too -- it didn't matter when he woke up, whether it was the middle of the night or late in the morning, early in the afternoon. Always, there was someone watching him.

It had been what seemed a long time since he tried to kill himself. He had been visited by nurses only, no other patients. Some nurses had tried to talk to him, tried to ask him questions, but the only thing Kaka could even muster was a soft whimper.

When Berbatov came to see him, Kaka opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like days. His eyelashes stuck together as he opened them, and he lifted both hands to wipe away the sleep glue that had formed over the nearly two weeks he had been there. For the first time, he registered that there was a heart monitor on his finger, an IV in his arm. Tears streamed from his eyes as he looked at the tubes and clips, feeling his finger pulse. He tried to sit up, to look at Berbatov, but he couldn't do either.

Berbatov was sitting down on a chair next to Kaka's bed, looking worriedly at the machines that were monitoring Kaka's brain and heart activity. He smiled at Kaka, though his eyes were nervous, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, looking down at his hands (which, for the first time, Kaka noticed, didn't hold a pad or a clipboard), wringing them together.

Kaka said nothing, just whimpered softly, and closed his eyes tightly again for a moment. Berbatov sighed heavily, and Kaka opened his eyes again, still unable to look directly at Doctor Berbatov.

"I never thought that this would be as difficult as it is for you," came Berbatov's soft, gentle voice. Kaka had always liked that about him, had always felt warm towards him. Now, he felt nothing but pain and doubt, doubt that God had ever existed.

"I didn't know that you would react this way, and. And in hindsight, it was stupid of me." Berbatov was shaking his head, and Kaka could see it out of the corner of his eye. "I should have -- I'm. I wasn't thinking about how." Kaka heard him swallow. "How it would affect your faith."

Kaka looked up at that, finally looked at Berbatov, shaking his head.

"I h-have no faith."

Berbatov's face fell. Kaka's tears kept falling, and he rubbed at his eyes harshly, a soft sob entering his voice next.

"G-God has abandoned me," he whispered, the next sob that came wracking his body sharply. He could feel his wrists tense for a moment, pulling at the scabs on his wrists. "I-I. I-I don't want to l-live anymore."

Berbatov shook his head, leaning forward in his seat and taking Kaka's hand suddenly. Kaka leaned back in his bed, sharp sobs shaking him to the bone, but he didn't pull his hand away from Berbatov's grip.

"I promise you," he heard Berbatov say, "I promise you that we will find something that works. G-God still loves you," he said, and it sounded to Kaka like Berbatov had never meant anything more in his life.

--

Nearly three weeks had passed. Ruud had gone home, to the Netherlands, to see his parents… he had needed it. He had needed to see his family, needed to clear his head. Kaka's suicide attempt had hit him so hard, and he had needed to collect his emotions; to remind himself how much good he could do at the hospital. King Eric had understood his need for a leave of absence, and he had taken it that afternoon, and gone back to the Netherlands the next morning.

Now, he was back at the hospital, prepared to go back to work. He had put on his scrubs, had spent a full day preparing himself. He went to talk to King Eric before he started, to show him that he was in a good mindset to start working again. He was sure that he was.

But in the ten minutes he had spent talking to King Eric, he had gone from being pleased to being worried. He had wanted to go back to his old ward -- to Cristiano, more specifically. He had to check on him, had to see him. (Had to see if Cristiano had kept his promise.)

King Eric had reassigned him to a ward of PTSD-sufferers. Ruud felt like he couldn't breathe when he left Eric's office -- how was he just supposed to go to work in this other ward, like nothing was wrong? King Eric said he thought the change might do Ruud some good -- that Ruud had needed a change when he had gone on leave, and King Eric intended to give it to him. Ruud understood the decision, but he couldn't stand by it -- not knowing how attached the dysmorphia patients had grown to him.

It was only a few hours into his shift in the ward he had been reassigned to that he snuck away, brow furrowed in frustration. He needed to be sure that Cristiano was alright. He went to the ward while he was meant to be doing his rounds, knocking gently on the door of Cristiano's room and entering slowly.

The sight that met him nearly knocked him down. Cristiano was laid in bed, maybe sleeping, breathing slowly. Ruud was sure he could see Cristiano's heart thumping in his chest, his ribs pulsing with every beat. He was absolutely skeletal. Ruud felt tears in his eyes already, looking at the tubes running into Cris' arm, the ones that would be bringing him nutrients enough to stay alive -- looking at the tube attached to his nose to keep his oxygen saturation levels up. Ruud let a few tears fall at the sight of a heart monitor; he couldn't bear seeing Cristiano being pumped full of fluids this way. He looked worse than he had ever been.

Ruud stepped up to the bed, running one large hand back over Cris' hair gently, hearing him moan softly in the half-sleep that had clearly overtaken him in his physical exhaustion.

"Kleintje," he said softly, the tears unmistakable in his voice now. "You promised me…"

Cristiano's eyes fluttered open quickly at that. For a moment, he didn't believe that he was awake; he had to be dreaming if Ruud was back, if Ruud was sitting there on the edge of his bed, stroking back his hair. But his hand on the side of Cris' face felt so warm and solid and real, the way it always had. He knew Ruud had to really be there.

"Y-you came back," he said softly, eyes wide, the circles beneath them dark. He looked exhausted.

"Of course I did, fraaiheid," he said gently, pulling closer to Cris, placing a hand on either side of his bony face, tears still collecting in his eyes. "Of course I came back."

"What's going on in here?"

The voice came from the doorway, where Henry stood, eyebrows furrowed.

"Ruud? Weren't you reassigned?"

Ruud didn't look away from Cris, smiling a little. "Yes, Doctor, but I had to see this boy. He made me a promise."

"Ruud, you know I have to report this to King Eric."

Ruud nodded. Cristiano looked up at him, eyes concerned, but Ruud shook his head.

"Don't worry, kleintje. I'll be back."

Not half an hour later, Ruud stood in front of King Eric for the second time that day. Henry stood next to him, frowning, though his expression was somewhat smug and overly satisfied with himself.

"He was supposed to be on my main ward and instead of doing his job he is sitting in the Ronaldo boy's room just talking to him." Thierry looked at Ruud, who looked defiant.

"I had Cristiano eating on a regular basis and well on his way to recovering before I left. He'd gained nearly all the weight he needed to." Ruud's voice was deep, his arms folded over his chest. "You can't tell me I haven't been good for that boy. I know that I should have been doing my rounds, but I had to be sure that he was alright."

Thierry rolled his eyes, looking with a great deal of contempt at Ruud. "You're out of line, Van Nistelrooy," he said practically snarling Ruud's name in his french accent.

"Enough."

King Eric's voice boomed through the room as he stood, hands braced against the desk in front of him. "I have heard enough. Ruud, go back to your post… and if you are caught away from it outside of your break, I will not be so lenient."

Ruud's frown didn't leave his face, but he nodded, and turned to leave the room. "Yes sir."

Thierry was smiling smugly now, still standing before King Eric, and Eric moved around the desk, shaking his head.

"You're a self-satisfied little prick, Henry."

The words were deadly, and Thierry looked up in surprise.

"I just brought you a nurse who disobeyed a direct order--"

"To visit a patient who may be dying, who he is very close to," Eric said, eyes narrowing. He needed to cut Thierry down to size -- this was too much, coming from him.

"If you ever got close enough to your patients to truly help them, maybe you would know what it feels like to care about one of them."

Thierry was speechless. Eric pointed to the door, his face final, his words low and commanding.

"Now get the hell out of my office and for once, go do your job."

--

Cesc had gotten steadily worse. He'd spent several days unable to sleep -- every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was blood and sand and gunfire. He could feel his eyes twitching as he blinked, from need of rest, from need of quiet sleep. Cesc hadn't had a quiet sleep in weeks.

Part of him wished that he could have really killed himself that night in his house, alone. Anything was better than feeling constantly afraid -- feeling the tension in his shoulders and throat every time he spoke, in his arms and legs every time he moved. His muscles weren't even working right anymore.

There was no chance of him going back into the army, not with a psych eval in his jacket. It scared Cesc plenty, and kept him awake at night. He didn't know how to do anything else. They had taught him to kill from two hundred yards, how to shoot a gun and twist a kabar knife between a man's ribs to collapse a lung so he couldn't scream, a silent kill. They had taught him how to live for days without food, with limited water, how to keep the sand out of his eyes.

But they had never taught him what to do when he couldn't make his mind stop, when he couldn't make his eyes close without seeing the people he had killed. They had never taught him what to do if he was dishonorably discharged, as he surely would be, now; for misuse of his service revolver if nothing else.

Cesc had a run-in with another patient, Nando, who had cornered him for murmuring under his breath. Cesc could feel his training kicking in as soon as Nando stepped close to him; another thing the army had taught him was to always feel threatened.

He shoved Nando back, getting him on the ground, his eyes wide and glassy. He couldn't stop hitting him, couldn't stop pressing Nando's arms down onto the floor, surely bruising his wrists.

Cesc was brought back to his room, silent sobs wracking his body, though there were no tears on his face. If there was something he couldn't do, for sure, it was cry. He hadn't slept in days, and his body finally exhausted itself. He passed out cold in his bed, though it was early in the evening when he did.

Yoann came back in the evening at lights out. He smiled a little at Cesc's finally sleeping form; Yoann knew he hadn't been sleeping. He had been getting closer and closer to Cesc; Cesc would tell him about his family sometimes, about when he had traveled on a goodwill mission to Africa and Germany; all over the world. Yoann liked listening to the simple way Cesc talked. Cesc was still so young, like Yoann, still had so much life. He'd even started to understand some of Yoann's expressions, responding aloud to him when he could figure out what Yoann meant.

In the middle of the night, though, Yoann knew something was wrong. Cesc's body was shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched in fists. Yoann clambered from his bed, staying a short distance from Cesc's bed -- he knew that Cesc might hit him, might have another panic attack if he tried to wake him.

Yoann knew what panic attacks felt like. He knew what it felt like to be hopeless, to react in fear without even knowing what he was doing. Yoann had been in trouble, too, for fighting -- he had ended up with a bloody lip and a bruise above his eye little more than a week ago. He could scarcely remember the fight -- could only remember being terrified for his life in those five minutes.

The boy he'd fought with had called him stupid, had badgered him to talk, thrust hands against his chest. Yoann had panicked, unable to breathe, had swung at the boy. He had done a number on him, but the boy had gotten a few good hits in on him as well. King Eric had asked him why he'd fought, but Yoann couldn't answer. He had only shrugged. King Eric had sighed.

Yoann knew he was frustrating. That not talking made everyone around him annoyed; that he disappointed them. His speech therapist had told him that the average number of words spoken by an adult per day was sixteen thousand. Could that really be possible? Could someone really speak that much in one day? Yoann doubted he had ever said that many words in his life.

Now, watching Cesc thrashing in his bed, clearly having a nightmare, Yoann stood frozen for a moment. He had to do something. He didn't know what he could do, what there was that wouldn't possibly hurt him and Cesc both.

A split second later, Yoann clambered onto the bed, pinning down Cesc's hands on the bed, gripping tightly, hoping it would wake him up. He tried twice to say his name, but only a soft whimper came out, one in a voice that Yoann had never heard before.

Cesc woke from his dream, still thrashing and fighting. He didn't know where he was, for a few moments, begged Yoann to let him to home to his family, to go home to his own country. Yoann shook his head, looking down at Cesc with wide eyes. A look of realization collected with the tears in Cesc's eyes, and Yoann let go of his hands, placing a hand on either side of Cesc's face, the gesture gentle, empathy and worry filling Yoann's eyes.

Cesc shook his head, a sob wracking his body, but this time the tears came, streaming down his cheeks. Yoann shook his head, moving next to Cesc, wrapping his arms around him gently, closing his eyes. He wanted to say something, to speak to Cesc, to tell him it would be okay, to tell him he needed to talk to his doctor, to Henry. But he couldn't make a single sound.

Cesc must have felt him straining, because he turned to Yoann and shook his head. "Th-thank you," he said softly, his voice hoarse, his throat raw. Yoann smiled worriedly at him, and Cesc nodded.

"I-I promise I'll talk to him."

--

Ryan had been steadily improving. He had been moved in with Javier, who was delightful and sweet, of course, especially with someone as gentle as Ryan, who had become close to him fairly quickly. When Paul would come to visit them, he would find them sitting together, both on one bed, talking or just sitting. Paul was happy, because Ryan was happy.

Paul was good at keeping his feelings of attachment to patients under control. He would send patients letters sometimes, once they were out, but eventually, they wanted to move on, and Paul could respect that.

That's why it bothered him so much that he couldn't get Ryan out of his head. Paul knew how to let go, was very good at letting go. He knew when to do it, too, never let go of a patient who needed him. But this, this was different. He couldn't stop thinking about Ryan even when he was off duty -- what he might be thinking, if he was talking to Javier, if he was asleep yet, if he had smiled enough that day (Paul smiled just thinking about Ryan's smile).

Getting attached was something Paul knew not to do, but he couldn't help it. The way Ryan needed him, the way Ryan would talk to him like nobody else would… it was all too much for him to ignore now.

Paul had come in on him in the middle of the afternoon, his anxiety medication in hand -- it had been working well, and Ryan had been more able to stay calm, even in the face of things that normally made him panic. He grinned at him when he sat down on Ryan's bed. Javier was down the hall in the lounge with Wayne, who'd taken a shine to him. Paul thought it was sweet, though he'd never say it.

But something was wrong. Ryan smiled back at Paul, but it was forced, so terribly forced and Paul could read the panic in Ryan's eyes immediately.

"Alright, love?" he asked gently, placing a hand on Ryan's shoulder, not removing it though he flinched.

"F-fine," Ryan whispered softly, and Paul shook his head.

"No, come on -- are you alright?"

Ryan closed his eyes, breathing starting to quicken. Paul could tell he was fighting back the panic attack that would have been certain a week earlier.

"What's got you worried, Ry?"

Ryan shook his head, swallowing hard, fingers trembling where they rested in his lap. Paul reached for Ryan's hands, taking one of them gently and holding it between his own, looking at Ryan's closed eyelids, at the tension in his face. He hated seeing Ryan so panicky. It had never gotten to him like this before, but he couldn't help it. There was no question that Ryan least of all deserved to feel anxious.

"I-I was supposed to go to Africa."

Paul frowned a little, squeezing Ryan's hand encouragingly. "Yeah?"

"I-I was supposed to go and h-help people and instead I'm in here because I'm. B-because I'm f-fucking useless."

Ryan's voice sounded wrong swearing just there -- Paul had never heard him do it before, but more than that, it was the hushed way he said the words, like there could be nothing more true than what he was saying.

Paul knew from experience that anxiety patients were sometimes the most vulnerable to things without even knowing it. Kaka's attempt might have made Ryan think about his own reasons that he had wanted to die when he had first checked in. Paul could see the pain in the way he leaned forward, curled in on himself; could hear it in his strained, soft voice.

Paul shook his head and squeezed Ryan's hand again.

"You're not. You're wonderful."

--

Iker had been hesitant to bring Sergio to King Eric, but Sergio wouldn't accept anything less. He hadn't begged, the way Iker had come to know him to do, but had instead demanded, refused to speak or move until Iker had relented with a sigh, and a soft, "Okay."

Sergio had scarcely been out of his room since he had been in the hospital, had imposed a kind of room-arrest on himself; he left almost exclusively for meals, and even considering that, would often skip them. Iker had noticed, of course, how skinny he had gotten, how his ribs poked at his skin, how sunken his eyes looked. But he couldn't force Sergio to eat, just as he couldn't make him stop wanting the drugs he so desperately asked for every time he thought there was a chance.

Iker stopped outside King Eric's door, sighing, frowning a little at Sergio, but then smiling a little. He knocked at the door, turning the knob and opening it just a little, biting his lip as he looked at Eric sat behind his desk, looking over some paperwork, looking incredibly intimidating (and Iker was not easily startled).

"King Eric?"

Eric looked up in surprise, as if he had been absorbed in thought. "My apologies, sir…"

"Iker. Is something wrong?"

Iker opened the door a little further to reveal Sergio standing there, hospital clothes nearly hanging off of his gaunt frame (though, Iker couldn't help noting, it didn't diminish the luster or colour of his skin, the beauty in his deep brown eyes. Iker wondered what Sergio's smile looked like.).

"He wanted to see you, he wouldn't take his medication until he came to see you," he said softly, eyes on Sergio before they looked back at Eric. "Sergio, this is King Eric."

Sergio didn't move for a moment -- just stood in the doorway, dark eyes wide and somewhat intimidated for a split second. He entered the room and looked at Eric, who nodded at Iker. Iker frowned a little, and closed the door behind him as he left.

"I am Eric Cantona. I am the head doctor and director here. What can I do for you, Sergio?"

Sergio just looked at the man for a moment, at his thick beard and his moustache and the eyebrows that were furrowed in what seemed to be confusion.

"I want to go home," he said, hands folded across his chest, trying to stop his fingers from shaking.

Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes. This had not, thus far, been his day; the hospital was normally fairly quiet, but ever since Kaka had tried to kill himself, all hell had broken loose. "I think you and I both know that is not a possibility. You don't have a home to go to, little one."

Sergio frowned, moving closer to Eric, who had stepped back behind his desk as he had spoken. "Yes I do. My home is anywhere I like. That's why they call me Gypsy." He bit his lip, stepping with a slow kind of sway in his hips now. He had learned how to be seductive, to get what he wanted, and he was going to use it as best he could.

"I can't release you without a place to go. If you receive treatment here and recover, we can place you in outpatient and find you an apartment and a job. But until then, you have to stay here."

Sergio pushed back the urge to utterly break down, to fall to the floor screaming the way he wanted to, or the lunge at Eric and hurl his skinny, shaking fists against him. He moved around the desk, behind which Eric was now sitting, one skinny, frail leg on either side of the older man's. Eric sighed before he looked up, closing his eyes before furrowing his eyebrows at Sergio, not moving or changing his expression even as Sergio settled himself in his lap, pressing himself against Eric wantonly.

"I wouldn't tell anybody… n-nobody would ever need to know that, that I was ever here." His voice was smooth, seductive, but Eric could hear the shake in it that Sergio couldn't seem to get rid of, despite being clean, now.

"You could let me go and I would disappear… I-I'll let you fuck me and then I'll d-disappear."

Eric didn't move for another moment, letting Sergio's soft, raspy, ragged, tired voice continue with his wanton words; let Sergio press his hips against Eric's, let him press his lips to Eric's neck. Had Eric had any less self control, he would have given in; Sergio had tan skin and dark eyes, though there was a deep sadness in them, and a slender figure to match the fingers that trembled at Eric's waistband.

Suddenly, Eric grabbed ahold of Sergio's wrists, startling him, and pushed him up onto the desk, holding him there efficiently. He had needed to take Sergio by surprise to pin his hands down, to keep him from reacting unfavorably and hurting himself as he tried to hurt Eric. Now, his expression was terrified, eyes wide as he looked up at Eric.

"Listen to me very closely, little one," he said softly, almost warmly, but firm, clearly unwilling to budge on the issue. "It is my job to make sure you are alright when you leave this hospital. You don't leave here until we help you to figure out what is wrong."

Sergio shook his head, stuttering, but Eric held both of his wrists in one hand, placing one finger to Sergio's lips, gentle, but his expression was firm, eyes almost angry but under control.

"No. Do you see these?" He held Sergio's hands away from his body, showing the trackmarks, the bruises on his wrists and against his elbows. Sergio turned his face away, squeezing his eyes closed, but he didn't speak, too terrified, too nervous in the face of the head doctor above him.

"This is how I know you are not ready to leave, little one. I will do everything I can to help you -- and Iker, too, no? He wants very much for you to get better. But you need to let us help you."

Sergio looked up at Eric, the fear evident in his eyes, and nodded, though Eric was certain that he was only saying it to get away. He let go of Sergio and moved back from him. Sergio moved away from the desk slowly, eyes still wide, fingers shaking even more visibly now.

"Take your medication and go back to your room, little Sergio. And we will talk someday soon."

The door closed behind him, and Iker took Sergio back to his room. His movements were more ginger, and he rubbed at his wrists gently, not looking at Iker, face slightly flushed.

"Are you alright, amiguito?" Iker asked gently, tucking the sheets around Sergio's thin little body once he had climbed back into his bed. Sergio nodded, looking at his arms, unable to look away from them now, sitting up in bed though he was exhausted, even with the adrenaline coursing through his veins now.

"Iker," he said, very softly, and Iker stopped moving, looking up -- it was the first time Sergio had ever said his name that way -- inquisitively, but not begging; not pleading for medication, or to be fucked, or to die. Just questioning, soft.

"W-why does everyone here c-care what happens to me?"

Iker swallowed. "We all feel very strongly about people who hurt and don't know why," he said, his voice very quiet. "We -- I. I don't think you should have to want to die all the time, pequeño. Especially not so young. With your whole life ahead of you."

Sergio looked at Iker, finally, the deep sadness there in his dark brown eyes, and the expression almost broke Iker's heart.

"I-I've lived enough."

--

Nema had been in solitary for two days when Rio came to get him out. His voice was tired; he'd clearly been working nonstop for days; Nema felt bad, that now Rio had to deal with him, had to lecture him. The strange part was that Rio seemed to be on his side.

"Heard they put you in 'ere for gettin' at that Rooney fella."

Nema nodded, looking at his feet on the dirty floor. Rio spoke to him through the slot in the door, which had only been opened at mealtimes for Nema, though every time, he begged to be let out. "Please," he kept saying, his voice desperate in a way it never was. At first, he had been angry, had banged his fists against the walls until his knuckles bled. But after the first few hours, he had stopped fighting, and started begging to be let out.

"Yeah," he said softly, nodding again, eyes still fixed on his bare feet.

"God." He heard Rio sigh angrily on the other side of the door, saw him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. "That Henry… I swear to God he doesn't care."

Nema laughed dryly, feeling defeated, and he saw Rio look up.

"They've gone to get the keys, Nema, don't worry. We're gonna get you outta there. You shouldn't've been in there at all, let alone two days…"

Nema bit his lip, moving a little closer to the door, clenching his fists once and then relaxing them. "I. I tried, Rio," he said, voice deep and quiet and hopeful. "I counted. I, I was breathing slow… I didn't hurt him or anything…"

Nema could hear the smile in Rio's voice when he next spoke.

"That's really good, Nema. You're gonna get out of here pretty quick if you keep that up." He sighed, a little more happily. "Where are they with those damn keys, I swear…"

Nema smiled a little, too, sitting down against the door, reaching a hand out of the slot. Rio hesitated a moment, but took his hand, running a thumb over Nema's bloodied, bruised knuckles and squeezing his hand gently.

"How'd this happen, love?"

"Punching the floor." Nema shrugged, smiling a little. "I know I'm not supposed to take out my anger that way, but… but there's nothing, in here."

Rio nodded again, looking through the slot at Nema's bright, focused, piercing blue eyes with his own dark brown ones. "Don't hurt yourself, again, okay?"

Nema nodded.

It was only another fifteen minutes before he was out of solitary, and immediately, he heaved a sigh of relief. He felt a weight lifted from his broad shoulders the moment he was outside the doorway of the small room. Rio put his arms around him, grinning at him, and Nema grinned back.

"Thanks."

Rio nodded and patted Nema on the back. "No problem, kid. You're getting better at controlling yourself, that's what matters. We're gonna go patch up those knuckles, yeah?"

--

"I don't know what to do."

King Eric sat with his hands linked together, elbows on his desk; his eyes were fixed on Berbatov, whose normally worried face looked even more crestfallen. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes lowered, his hands gesturing in his lap as he spoke.

"I don't want to take him off of the medication, n-not -- not when he could get violent, not when he'll still hear the voices… But he'll barely move, Eric."

Dimitar's voice was strained, his eyes closing with the last phrase. Eric knew it had been hard on him; he had never had a patient react to medication this way. Dimitar had always had patients who wanted the voices to stop, but Kaka seemed to have a sort of Stockholm syndrome with the voice that plagued him.

"He thinks it is God that speaks to him," Dimitar said softly, and shook his head again. "He. He says he has no faith."

Eric sighed heavily, placing his hands on the desk, frowning, and stood. "Maybe it is just too strong," he said, gently, moving around the desk to sit in the chair next to Dimitar's, facing him in it, expression understanding and worried. "You know this is not your fault."

Dimitar sighed softly, shakily, and shook his head, propping it on his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "Who else could be at fault, for this, Eric? I should have known -- I have been seeing him for months, I should have known this would happen."

"There was no way to know unless you tried it. And now you have." He reached out, placing a hand on Dimitar's back. He could feel the doctor trembling, and he frowned; Dimitar was clearly very sensitive about this issue. Eric knew he was a brilliant doctor, something of a genius, but he was still very young, as well; still had not experienced watching one of his own patients fall apart the way Kaka had.

A soft sound at the door alerted him to Henry's presence, and Eric patted Dimitar on the back, gently, saying softly that he would return in a moment. Henry stepped outside the room again as Eric approached him, following him out.

"What, Thierry, what can be this important now?"

"Kaka is awake, sir." Thierry's face was anxious, like Eric hadn't seen him over a patient in some time. "He is asking for Dimitar."

King Eric spent a short time encouraging Dimitar to go and talk to Kaka after that, patting his hand and meeting eyes with him. "You know that the best thing you can do for him is to go and talk to him now."

Dimitar had eventually swallowed his nerves and nodded, King Eric's hand on his back as he walked through the hallways to Kaka's room.

Kaka was sitting up, for the first time in what must have been an absolute age. He looked tired, thin; the sight broke Dimitar's heart, and he turned to Eric outside Kaka's door.

"I-I don't think I can do this."

"You can. You must. For your patient, yes? I know that you can do it."

Dimitar nodded a little, looking up at Eric's kind face, and bit his lip. He said nothing, but went into the room, running a hand back over his hair and sitting down next to Kaka's bed, looking at him. "You asked for me, Kaka?"

"I-I want to be taken off of this medication, I-I. I want to hear God again."

Dimitar bit his lip, closing his eyes.

"We're. King Eric and I have been talking about what we are going to do."

Kaka's eyes were wide and tired, exhausted, and he had fixed them on Dimitar, his usual smile nowhere to be found -- missing, as it had been since the morning he had woken up without God inside him.

"B-but can't you just take me off of them? I-I, I'll stay in here f-forever if I can h-have God back."

Dimitar swallowed hard, lost for words, his heart breaking and sinking all at once from the pain in Kaka's voice. He couldn't speak, spluttering for something to say.

Eric stepped into the room and sat on the other side of Kaka, who looked at him, swallowing a sob, and Eric spoke next with a hand clasping Kaka's.

"We're going to do everything we can to make this right. But we need you to understand that we can't commit you for life until we have tried everything."

Kaka nodded a little, tears leaking out of his eyes suddenly, and he looked at Berbatov.

"D-Doctor Berbatov is still going to be my doctor?"

Eric nodded, smiling across at Dimitar, who looked up at Eric hopefully, though his eyes still held tenfold the amount of anxiety they had in Eric's office. Eric knew how much he cared for his patients, even if he sometimes had trouble showing his affection the way the other doctors did.

"Yes, my dear one, of course he is."

forward

PECTUS PECTORIS. part one: before

somnallocution — Tue, 24 May 2011 05:33:13 GMT

Cesc was in the desert. It was hot, too hot to be wearing so many layers of scratchy, rough clothing, and his uniform was oppressive in the heat, his feet covered in thick, tough boots. He held a heavy, black metal gun, too heavy for him to lift. He felt like he was moving through dust instead of air. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see no matter how hard he squinted. It was too bright, too dry, too hot.

Now, suddenly, there was gunfire, there were grenades going off and people running everywhere when there had been nobody on the street before, speaking in a language Cesc didn't understand. The gun was going off in his hands, firing everywhere, but there was nothing he could do to make it stop. It was all cutting in and out, as though his eyes had poor reception, and then there was shrapnel lodging into his arm and chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only feel a sudden darkness overtake him.

He woke up shaking, sweating, eyes wide and terrified, his heart thumping against his chest, in his neck, his arms. There was nothing about his surroundings that was anything like the desert; it was dry and cool and white, all white; there was no dirt anywhere. It was the middle of the night, and Cesc panted in the dark, feeling nervous, exhausted, feeling like he could cry (Cesc hadn't cried since before he'd been shipped out, not since he was a teenager. Cesc was barely twenty, but he felt so much older now, like he had lived a hundred years.)

Cesc went back to sleep, feeling restless, knowing it would be another sleepless night; that there was nothing he could do about the dreams until the morning.

Even when he could do something about them, he felt helpless. All that seemed to work was drugs, sleeping pills, anything to keep his mind off the desert and machine guns and men, women, children, lying in the streets covered in blood; and the doctors said even that would stop helping. This place, with its wards full of screaming schizophrenics and weeping balls of anxiety who may once have been people -- it wasn't much more restful than being at home with himself and his dreams and nobody else.

Cesc had been shaking, eyes closed, gun pointed directly at his head, the last night of his leave of absence -- the night he'd been committed. Every time he closed his eyes, the image was there -- a little boy, lying dead in the sun in the street, his mother weeping over him, her black veil stained with his blood, as she fought away the buzzards. She refused to move, no matter how much those around her urged her. She was weeping, screaming for her dead son. And every time it appeared behind his eyelids, the boy was Cesc, when he was three; the woman, his mother, screaming, crying.

Cesc couldn't take it anymore. He'd taken the pistol he'd been issued with his military uniform, and gone to his bedroom. The lights were out. Every light in the house was dark, but the news was still blaring on the television in the living room. He called his mother, and he told her goodbye, hurriedly, telling her not to worry; that this was best.

Cesc had sat there with the cold barrel pressed against his temple for nearly an hour, his heart beating hard and loud in his ears. He wanted to pull the trigger; he wanted the images to disappear, wanted the stink of death to leave his nose, the screams of the women he'd watched bury their husbands and children to stop ringing in his ears.

His commanding officer had eased the gun out of his hand two hours later before he had even known the man was there. After that, it had been a blur, going much too quickly for Cesc to follow; it was checking into the hospital that very night with his mother and his lieutenant colonel filling out the paperwork for him. He didn't want them there. He didn't want anybody there. Cesc just wanted to be alone, in the dark, in the quiet. That was all he wanted.

"Tell me again, Cesc... why did you try to kill yourself?"

It seemed like no time between when he had woken up and when he was facing his psychiatrist, a handsome frenchman with dark skin and dark eyes, and a very toothy smile, which he flashed at Cesc whenever he entered the office. But Cesc was too agitated, too overtired, to even consider liking his doctor; he had answered this question over and over. He was running on nearly no sleep, and now he had to answer this same question for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Because I wanted to die," he said, voice quiet, hollow, not looking at the doctor.

"But you have so much to live for -- a mother, who loves you, a whole family who loves you."

Cesc nodded, robotically. "I know."

"Then why? Why take away your mother's little boy from her?"

Cesc didn't looked up, just gazed absently down at his hands, picking at the skin around his fingernails.

"Is it because of the children where you were stationed?" Dr. Henry asked, his voice gentle, but firm. Cesc could feel Henry looking at him, watching him for any sign of reaction, but Cesc just felt empty; cold, a machine. The machine the army had tried to make him into.

"I know this is difficult," Henry said, some minutes later. "The things you witnessed would do this to anybody, Cesc... they would hurt anybody enough to need some time away from everything."

"Can I go now?" Cesc asked, nodding his head sideways at the clock when Henry looked up, his expression questioning. "It's been an hour."

Henry sighed, but Cesc knew that meant he was free to leave.

"Until tomorrow," he heard behind him, refusing to look back.

--

"I'll let you do anything you want to me," he whispered, softly, voice shaking like his hands, despite how much effort he put into staying steady. The bags under Sergio's eyes were growing, daily, his body starting to detox from the heroin and cocaine that had been in his system for months, years. He'd woken up late that morning after only two hours of sleep with his head on fire, his body aching and stiff, his eyes too bloody to see through.

Now, he was pleading across to the nurse from the next ward over, the pediatric ward, who was there for the day since they were short-staffed. He was half-curled in bed, half-leaned over the side, nearly clawing at the nurse's scrubs, fingers trembling. "Anything, I swear... Nobody would ever know, y-you can fuck me, I'll suck you off... p-please. I just want a little, j-just... some morphine, y-you can give me morphine, I know you've got it..."

The nurse was pale, with bright brown eyes, and he looked somewhat startled by the rasp in Sergio's voice, his desperate words barely whispered in the room. His keycard showed his name on it, but Sergio could hardly focus on it; the nurse had the keycard that could access the pharmacy. That was what mattered.

The nurse, in his pale grey-lavender scrubs that showed which ward he had come from, smiled a little sadly and placed a hand against Sergio's, tugging it from his clothes gently. "I can't give you anything, Sergio," he said softly, raising an eyebrow. "You're supposed to be detoxing. It won't get any better if you keep this up."

Sergio's eyes watered, and he tried to cling to the nurse's clothes again as he tucked the fitted linens tighter into the bedframe. The nurse pulled his fingers away gently, the way he had always done with his own patients, who were mostly children or teenagers, when they clung to his clothes --always gentle, always kind, even when patients got violent.

There was a small shelf where patients sometimes put books or pictures of the ones they loved, put their personal items that they had brought with them from home; the nurse, whose name was Iker, couldn't help but note that Sergio had put nothing there; that the only personal item in the room was a ragged, dog-eared postcard from Sevilla stuck haphazardly to the stark white wall at the head of the bed. He smiled a little and pointed at it.

"Are you from Sevilla? I have heard it is very beautiful there." He smiled again and uncurled Sergio's fingers from his clothes once more.

Sergio was not so calm. He still murmured pleading words under his breath, his voice beginning to sound more and more aggravated, more scared, more desperate, with every syllable.

"Please," he rasped out, eyes pained. "I swear, I'd never tell... j-just give me something, anything, it h-hurts, please, I'll -- I'll make you feel good," he said, fingers trailing down towards Iker's waistband quickly. He wasn't fast enough, though; the withdrawal had made him groggy, his movements jerky, and Iker caught his fingers quickly with his own, and placed them back on the bed next to Sergio's body, keeping them there gently while he stood there.

Sergio had only been in the hospital a few hours -- maybe three or four at most. He had been high as a kite when he'd been brought in, certainly on cocaine, and there may have been three or four other uppers in his system that they'd tested for. Iker had been the one to put in Sergio's IV, not that Sergio seemed to remember that. He looked so small there in the bed, barely eighteen, eyes rolling back into his head. The IV hadn't lasted long in his arm when Sergio had woken up, violent, in a manic state.

"That isn't want I want, Sergio... I just want you to get better, no? Just try to relax."

Sergio wasn't satisfied with that answer, and sat down on the floor and cried, trying to stop his head from spinning.

--

Cristiano wanted a mirror. There were no reflective surfaces in his ward; the closest he had come to a mirror in the last year was the window of his room, and it was no good -- the light that shone through it prevented him from seeing himself in it. There were no mirrors, no scales, and he had to have supervision when he wanted to wash his face or his hands. It said it on his chart; Cris had looked. Severe body dysmorphia; weight and appearance to be monitored for alteration - 20 lbs to be gained. Supervision required when using cleaning solutions and soaps.

Cris hated that; he didn't want some doctor, some nurse, monitoring his appearance, his weight. He couldn't bear to have the nurses looking at him, to not be able to pick his own clothes; he had to wear a hospital gown until he gained six pounds, until he'd stop refusing to eat what was put in front of him.

He sat now on the windowsill, knees drawn up tightly to his chest, looking out the window in his room. The nurses had been encouraging him to leave his room more, to interact with the other patients on his ward, but today, Cris couldn't. He could scarcely leave the room without feeling his anxiety mount; he knew he was ugly, knew everyone was staring at him every time he left the room, and would exchange comments on how ugly and overweight and disfigured he was.

"Room checks," he heard a deep voice at the door say softly. He turned slowly, looking away from the window to see which nurse was at the door. He smiled just a little when he saw that it was one of the ones he liked; Ruud, the nurse who did room checks and gave out medication, in his maroon scrubs. Cristiano liked Ruud's company more than he liked most of the other patients'; he didn't feel too anxious with Ruud, because Ruud never looked at him with the appraising glances that the other nurses -- or the other patients, for that matter -- always seemed to throw at him.

Ruud grinned from the door and stepped into Cris' room as Cris swung his thin legs off of the windowsill. "Hi, Cris," he said softly, leaving the door open behind him. "Feeling well today?" Cris grinned back at him, slipping down off the windowsill and shrugging a little, standing in front of Ruud and looking up at him. Ruud was much taller than Cristiano, but it didn't bother him; Cris knew he might look worse than he already did if he were any taller.

"Hi," he said softly, and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving enough room for Ruud to sit down, too. "I don't have anything... Just new pictures." He nodded just a little at the side of the windowsill he had not been sitting on, which held a few pictures of Cris and his parents, and one that hadn't been there before -- one of Cris and a shorter, darker boy, both of them grinning madly. "Marcelo."

Ruud picked up the picture, smiling down at it. "Nice picture of the two of you," he said, voice gentle, and pulled a small plastic cup from his shirt pocket. It held a few pills -- a weight-gainer, two antacids, and a few others to keep Cris going. "You know the drill." He held out a bottle of water to Cris, unopened, and watched to make sure he took the pills.

Ruud worried about Cris; he had become less and less social over the past two months, since he'd committed himself, when he'd been one of the most social patients on the ward when he'd arrived. He'd told Ruud he was regretting it, that his friends had talked him into it, that he wanted to go home and wear his own clothes. Ruud was glad that until he gained a little weight, until he showed some improvement, they couldn't let him go. Cris opened his mouth, lifted his tongue -- showed Ruud that he wasn't keeping the pills in his mouth, and Ruud smiled at him, touching his hand gently.

"Good. And your room's clear."

--

Ryan had struggled with his anxiety all his life; he'd been medicated for it when he was a teenager, to keep him from panicking in any social situation. For the most part, it had worked. He had made it through school largely unscathed, occasional panic attack aside. He'd even gotten through University with only a few minor meltdowns to his name.

Once through nursing school, it had gotten harder. He started to feel his stomach drop in the face of rude or unruly patients, found himself awake half the night worrying about whether a little boy whose bloodwork he'd sent away would be alright, whether the grandmother with the nasty cough that he'd helped to treat would be able to have her grandchildren visit her.

At some point, Ryan had known he needed to get away from the hospital. It was stifling; it was causing him to have daily bouts of unignorable worry, to have to step aside and let other nurses do work he was perfectly capable of.

That was when he'd decided to do Doctors Without Borders. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, Ryan had thought. He would still get to help people, still get to make an impact, still retain his job at the hospital without having to be there, for a while. And traveling and working in a foreign country would make him so exhausted that his insomnia would have to go away.

The night before he was meant to leave for the Congo, Ryan had a nervous breakdown. He couldn't go to Africa, couldn't be a nurse anymore. He had sat in his apartment, unable to get the images of starving children out of his head, knowing he was letting them down -- knowing he was letting down Doctor Ferguson, his attending, who had written him countless letters of recommendation.

That evening he had contemplated killing himself. He knew he couldn't go to Africa, he was terrified, but he was too scared to stay in England. He stayed huddled on the couch in his apartment, teary and nervous and incredibly jumpy until the wee hours of the morning. The cab that had waited to take him to the airport was still there. Ryan had gotten up all his strength and asked the driver to take him to the hospital.

He'd managed to sign the consent form before collapsing in front of the nurse's station.

Once he'd been committed, Ryan was usually pretty good about interacting with other patients. He was never without a nervous half-smile at least, especially when there were nurses asking him questions. His eyes would go wide whenever a question was asked of him. On a bad day, he would hide away in his room as soon as he could, on the far side of the bed from the window. On a good day, he would answer questions of his doctors' and just sit by himself, in a chair that he could hide himself in easily.

(He had even made a friend at the hospital; his nurse, who wore yellow scrubs, was called Paul, but went by Scholesy, and his complexion was even lighter against the pale colour of the material. He was friendly, average -- and he never pushed Ryan when he was having a bad day. He would let him hide -- check on him, once in a while, but never push him to be social or leave his room when it was clear that Ryan couldn't. Ryan was glad that there was someone on the staff who seemed to understand how crippling Ryan's anxiety was.)

Ryan had made friends with a few of the patients, too; sometimes Yoann would be around, sometimes not, but Ryan was as friendly as he could be to the boy who never spoke. Even the boy in the room next to him, whose name was Javier (though all the nurses called him something else in Spanish) was friendly enough to Ryan despite how nervous and jumpy he always was.

Ryan was friendly to everyone he met in the hospital, as friendly as he could be. He avoided some other patients at all costs; there was a tall, broad man named Nemanja who Ryan had watched break through the plaster on a wall, all while swearing loudly in some language Ryan didn't understand. Ryan avoided him; all he could think of was if Nemanja ever got as angry as he was then, at Ryan. Just the thought, the first time he'd had it, had sent him into a panic attack.

Ryan sat by himself at dinner, though he struggled to remain at the table. There had been some ruckus earlier that day in the ward where he and Javier lived, lots of shouting from Jose, the schizophrenic who lived several rooms down from the two of them. Lots of shouting, too, from Nemanja. Ryan had hidden in his room for hours, shivering, terrified that something horrible was going to happen.

Scholesy had been the one to find him, had stroked his hair back, listening to him hyperventilate for the third time in as many hours. Ryan could vaguely hear Paul's voice, more gentle than he'd ever heard it, his fingers easy and tender on Ryan's forehead.

--

Everything was red -- every sound felt red and muffled and filtered through the anger ringing in his head. Nemanja knew there was blood on his knuckles, but he didn't know whose it was, could barely see. All he knew was that inside his head, there was nothing but red, nothing but blood pumping loud in his ears. No feeling. No compassion. Nothing.

There was someone screaming, he could recognize distantly, in some Latin language. His own voice was muttering in Serbian, the sound almost sinister, demonic. Nemanja was only able to tell what was going on by the sound of everything now, by the feel of things. Everything was still blood red and it made his eyes ache with fury, as though every inch of him was about to burst apart with rage. His mind was vacant except for the anger coursing through every synapse, every vein. He couldn't even remember why he was angry, but it was impossible for him to stop.

There was a blue halo forming in his eyes now, though -- everything always seemed blue in comparison, for a while, after Nemanja's red vision had subsided -- and he could hear the doctor counting to ten very slowly. Feeling returned to him, and he knew at least one finger had been shattered -- again -- and that his hands were covered in blood. He could feel the orderlies gripping his muscular arms tightly. Incidentally, Nemanja didn't blame them; he had nearly killed another patient once.

Nemanja had never been good at dealing with his rage, ever since he was a little boy. He felt things very strongly, but it had been instilled in him since he was three years old that he was not to show those feelings. It hadn't bode well for him; when he was six years old, he had gone to live with his grandmother, and as he had told his mother goodbye, he had pulled a chubby handful of hair from her head, screaming and crying hysterically.

As he'd gotten older, he had gotten into fights at school, been kicked out for fighting, and been cursed at and hit by his grandmother for it. "Worthless," she would say to him, "You can't even stay in school -- just like your no-good father." Nemanja hadn't known his father, but he could only focus on the blows to his growing body. The broken nose had kept him awake for days, and it was still very crooked.

After his grandmother had died, Nemanja had gone to work. It only lasted a short while before he was committed at twenty; his mother had long since disappeared from his life, and he could no longer keep ahold of his anger. He had nearly killed an employee at the factory he'd worked at in Serbia for several months, and went on the run from the law, ending up squatting in an apartment in London. He got another job, where he once again caused a great deal of chaos, and was committed by his employer.

He was brought to his room and locked in, breathing still heavy as one of the night nurses came on duty, and came to bandage up his hand. He was calm now, but his body wouldn't let him quit. He stayed very still when the nurse wrapped up his hand, seeing a goofy grin spread across his features when Nemanja looked at him.

"Gave everyone a right great scare, 'ey, cuz'? No more of that comin' my way, I hope. God knows I couldn't take you on."

Nemanja smiled a little, the expression sheepish and almost nervous. Rio, the night nurse, just laughed a little. Normally, people laughing at Nemanja made him see red, made his blood boil, but not Rio. Rio never seemed to be laughing at him, only with him.

"You gotta relax, yeah? I mean. You know that, yeah, bruv? But you know you can't go bashin' in faces every time some idiot says somethin' without thinkin'."

Nemanja nodded, watching Rio's large hands still bandaging his fingers, gentle, and spoke softly, his voice low and husky.

"It's just... He makes me feel stupid."

"Jose?" Rio grinned, laughter in his voice already. "There's nobody in this place crazier than that loon, Nema!" he threw his head back, unbridled laughter escaping him, eyes shut tight.

Nema (who smiled just a little at the nickname) liked Rio. They were even almost friends; he was easy -- he made Nemanja feel at ease, feel much less on edge, like he didn't need to be angry.

Nema grinned back at him a little, and shrugged.

--

"Yoann, can you say this word for me?"

The nurse's voice was gentle, soft, but Yoann's expression stayed blank. He watched her gesturing at the word on the card as though he were a child learning his first word. The word was 'wrong'. Yoann could read perfectly well, probably better than any patient in the place. He had learned to read when he was only three, and he had taught himself.

Yoann had always known that his brain wasn't really the problem. He was smart enough to teach himself to read, to write (though nobody had ever seen him do so), and as far as he knew, he was perfectly capable of physically speaking. He hadn't tried talking when he was alone, so he couldn't be sure. One thing was certain, though; he could barely bring himself to open his mouth at all in front of other people. He hadn't spoken to anybody since he was eight years old.

"Yoann?" the nurse asked again, her voice still gentle, a touch of condescension in it. Yoann gave her a look that read contempt on his face, leaning back in his seat. He folded his arms protectively over his chest, sighing exasperatedly.

It was the same every day; he went to speech therapy, where he said nothing. He went to what his doctors called 'social hour', where he wouldn't say a single word. Then he went to his room, where he would draw or sleep or watch the empty field for boys playing football. Sometimes, in the summer, they would be there, kicking the ball around and tackling each other into the dry grass. Yoann liked being able to watch them in the summer, liked pretending he was allowed to leave and play with them.

Yoann had been in hospital since he was twelve. He was a ward of the government until he was eighteen, after his parents had all but left him for dead. He was almost twenty now, and hadn't ever said a word to any of the doctors, not the least of whom had known him since he was still a child.

"Very well, Yoann, if you don't want to try to read this word, you can go back to your room until mealtime."

Without a sound, Yoann stood and smiled at the nurse somewhat wryly, unfolding his arms and leaving to go back to his room.

Yoann wasn't particularly spiteful towards any of the nurses, or the doctors, not really. He had tried to talk when he was young, tried so hard, but whenever he was with other people, even the doctors, who he had every reason to trust, he couldn't make a single sound come out of himself. He knew there was a voice in there somewhere; he'd just lost it somehow, didn't know where it had gone to. He wasn't even sure what his voice would sound like now, now that he was older, that it had changed.

He retreated to his room to look out the window at the empty, muddy field. It was winter now. He sighed, curling himself up in the blankets from his bed, glancing at the one now usually inhabited by a young soldier, a fairly new patient, though he was apparently somewhere else.

Yoann had been given a roommate more than a year ago, to 'try to socialize' him, or so the doctors had said. Though Yoann had never uttered so much as a syllable to him, he had liked Iniesta plenty; he didn't try to make Yoann talk. Yoann appreciated that. Now, though, with Iniesta having improved so greatly, he was only in outpatient -- no longer living in the hospital meant he couldn't be Yoann's roommate.

Yoann missed him. He had laughed at anecdotes of Iniesta's; Iniesta had been quiet, sweet, but talkative enough at least to fill the silence Yoann left in his wake. Now, he rarely saw him. It made a line of worry appear in Yoann's forehead thinking about it; if he could never speak, would he ever get to see Iniesta again? He had, after all, been the very closest thing to a friend that Yoann had ever had in the hospital.

--

He could hear whispers behind him, swirling around him. There was nothing he could do about it, and he didn't want it to change. Ricardo felt like he was protected when he could hear the voices creeping up around him, twisting into him like vines, becoming more and more a part of him every day.

Ricardo (Kaka, to his family, to most people) hadn't known God when he was younger. He had known, or thought he had known, what God was. He had gone to church every week, faithfully, had even been an altar boy. The first time God had spoken to him, though, he had been fifteen -- no longer a little boy, but a teenager; usually sweet to his family but with a bit of an attitude on occasion. But when God spoke to him, he knew who it was immediately; every sense was filled with God's voice, clean and effortless as sunlight. There could be nothing bad that would ever happen while God spoke to Kaka.

He had been institutionalized after insisting to his parents that God had been speaking to him for years. He was seventeen. He had told them calmly, he could remember, with God encouraging him gently, the sound warm, easy in his ears. It was only when his parents had suggested that he needed help that he had begun to cry, and then shout. He had knocked out one of his father's teeth, and given him a black eye when he had tried to restrain Kaka. He had shattered a window, little wedges of clear glass lodging themselves in his hand.

Kaka hadn't been able to hear god when that had happened. Nor the next time, when his younger brother had shoved him, called him a lunatic -- Kaka had hit him hard in the face, heard his mother's cries ringing in his ears as his father had carried his brother into the house. Kaka didn't remember God speaking to him until after that had happened. All he could see when he thought of that incident was the blood that had pooled just below his brother's nose, thick and red.

Kaka was walking to therapy. There was nothing he could do to leave the hospital, not as long as he was considered a danger to himself and others. They had tried outpatient treatments, but Kaka kept getting upset when he was visited by his parents or his brother, who insisted that if he took medication, the voices would stop. Kaka didn't want to stop God from talking to him; God had chosen him, had picked him out of everyone to hear his voice.

None of the drugs they had tried had worked, which Kaka was glad of; Thorazine had made him anxious, and hadn't made the voices stop (Kaka had tried to convince the doctor that they had, but Berbatov was rather brilliant and had noted within five minutes that Kaka's demeanor hadn't changed for the better.

The Haldol had been marginally more effective, making the times at which God spoke to him more infrequent, but hadn't stopped them altogether. This lessening had made Kaka panic, and Berbatov had taken him off of Haldol almost immediately.

Kaka was supposed to start a new regimen of drugs, now. He was anxious about it, but God told him that everything would be alright, that he would never leave Kaka alone. That was comforting, and Kaka made his way to therapy expecting nothing to change, sure that everything would be fine.

God had said it, so it must have been true.

--

Cesc sat curled in a chair, rubbing his eyes, feeling despondent, almost bored. The hospital didn't offer him much to do, the severity of his case being assessed as low grade. Cesc didn't feel that way, not when every few days he would see a flash of something that had happened in the desert. He couldn't convince himself that his case was low-grade when he hadn't felt like himself since before he had gone to war.

Yoann, Cesc's roommate, sat silently across from him, chin in his hand, watching a boy called Nando flip through the channels on the television. Cesc hadn't been watching, had instead been intently focused on the thread-count of his hospital clothes.

Yoann had perked up, though, was shaking his head at Nando, who paid him no attention. Sometimes, Cesc wondered why Yoann didn't talk. He wondered the things that Yoann had wanted to say for his whole life, the things Yoann would have thought and never been able to express.

This thought was interrupted, though, when he realized why Yoann was upset, why he was shaking his head, trying to get Nando's attention. Nando had paused on the news on television, and the story that had begun was about the war, the number of troops who had died in the desert the way Cesc sometimes wished he had.

Cesc was frozen, eyes fixed on the screen. The images of boys his age running through desert towns were moving across the screen, and he could scarcely look away. It was like a nightmare. He didn't move, didn't make for the television or the remote, to rip it from Nando's hands like he wanted to and change the channel, to turn the television off, to do anything to get away from the sound of army drills and gunfire.

Before anybody in the room could process what was happening, Yoann was on his feet, very nearly leaping across the room to turn the television off. He knocked it backwards slightly as he did so, and though it didn't tip over, Nando and several other patients who had been watching started to shout at Yoann, whose face was emotionless, stony, aside from his eyes. His eyes were nervous, scared, and they looked straight at Cesc, who found the strength to stand from his seat and get between the patients and Yoann, giving Nando his most deadly glare.

"Leave him alone," he said, voice becoming gruff the way it had been in the army, coarse and quick, the way he had responded to his commanding officers.

"Leave him alone!" he said again, more forcefully this time, and the other patients moved away, rolling their eyes or muttering under their breath about Yoann, "retard" and "idiot" leaving their mouths. Yoann stood from where he had been kneeling in front of the television. He gave Cesc a small smile and moved away from the television as well, leaving Cesc alone with the orderly in the room, fuming, blood coursing with anger and fear and adrenaline.

Later, when he laid in his bed, next to Yoann's, the lights turned off and the moon shining through the window, he couldn't help murmuring a soft "thank you" to the boy who had never spoken to him, not a single time, even though they had lived together for several weeks now.

Yoann smiled a little as he laid in his own bed, looking out the window at the moon, thoughts of longing, of feeling like he didn't belong interrupted by Cesc's words.

In the morning, Yoann had leaned across to the shelf next to his bed and looked at the only things he'd had left from his life before the state had taken him as a ward. There was a small bear, tattered and worn and dusty -- Yoann hadn't looked at it in months, maybe longer -- and a photo of Yoann and two people he could vaguely recognize as his parents.

His parents were smiling in the photograph, and even the young boy of six or seven was smiling. He remembered the occasion; the family had gone together to a park, where Yoann had spilled the bottle of water his mother had given him to carry. Yoann remembered the day being hot and the bottle being slippery, his fingers sweaty, the bottle covered in condensation. His mother had screamed at him, had wrenched the empty bottle from his fingers and thrown it at him before she went after him with her hands, bruising his little arms and legs.

Yoann tried to put the incident from his mind, but he couldn't look away from the photograph, even when Doctor Henry came through the room to visit both him and Cesc. Cesc talked briefly to him, eyes disinterested, voice quiet and lifeless. Yoann wondered in the back of his mind if Cesc still felt panic the way he did, even after the army -- like every moment of what had happened was crushing in around him, coiling around his chest like a snake, until he couldn't breathe.

"Yoann?" Henry said softly, voice easy and tinged with a French accent. Yoann hadn't heard anybody speak french in longer than he could remember, and the sound was familiar, but not necessarily welcome. His parents had spoken French to him whenever they had spoken to him at all. He tore his eyes from the picture and looked at Henry, something in his eyes reading pain, wrongness, he was sure. No matter how much he wished he could be left alone when he felt this way, his eyes always betrayed his heart to the doctors.

"Are you alright?" Henry asked, leaning forward. Yoann shook his head, and Henry nodded.

"Would you like to see someone?"

Yoann nodded now, biting his lip, wishing he could speak, could scream, could cry and tell Henry what the photograph meant.

"King Eric?"

Yoann nodded again.

--

Sergio hadn't improved over the few days he'd been in the hospital. His eyes were dull, weak, his insides feeling as though they were filled with sludge and ashes and sharp things. He had been visited by three nurses, only one of whom stayed consistent. Every time he was visited he would plead with the nurse to give him something, anything.

He had managed to curl his fingers around the regular nurse's cock, keep his fingers moving long enough to get him hard. A doctor called Berbatov had seen him through the crack between the door and the doorjamb, though, had pulled the nurse away, eyes fretful and angry when he looked at the nurse.

Sergio had been devastated by that, by the loss of his only chance to get his hands on morphine. It was his only chance to feel better, he knew, it was the only thing that would stop the withdrawal and equalize him -- or knock him out. (Or, Sergio thought, he could overdose and die, be lost in the oblivion he craved for all time.)

It was the fourth day he was in the hospital that Sergio felt fingers he recognized on his arm, gentle and warm. He didn't want to open his eyes, his limbs feeling leaden and filled with aches from the withdrawal of cocaine and heroin.

"No," he murmured softly, tears in his voice, hands shaking as he tried to push the hands away. They were persistent, though, and far too gentle for Sergio to say no to.

"I just need to clean your arms up, Sergio… don't worry. It won't hurt."

The voice was familiar, too, and he opened his eyes, though they were bleary and bloodshot. Iker's face swam into view above him, and the tears he had held in for days spilled down his cheeks, silently. Iker's smile faded and he reached up to run a hand back over Sergio's hair gently.

"Oh, no, don't cry, little one," he said softly in Spanish, fingers ghosting over Sergio's unwashed hair.

Sergio shook his head, tears still streaming down his face as he struggled to sit upright, pushing at Iker's hands. "No, no no no," he said, voice thick with anguish, eyes closing again. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids now, shaking. "G-go away, you can't give me anything so I d-don't want you here, I, I don't care if my arms get infected a-and fall off and I d-die…"

The words were hardly strung together, were nearly unintelligible. But Iker didn't relent in his gentle quest to clean the track marks on Sergio's arms -- there had to be hundreds, from such constant use.

"Shh," Iker said softly, using the damp cloth in his other hand to press at the marks gently. "It's alright, pequeño," he said softly, smiling sadly at Sergio's pained expression, at the way he cried so forcefully.

"I want to die, I want to die," Sergio said softly, shakily, his eyes still squeezed shut, voice raw and vulnerable from days of nearly nonstop crying and shouting.

"I promise it gets better, Sergio… you just have to get clean, no? And you will feel better." The lines of concern grew across Iker's face, and Sergio shook his head emphatically, whispering still about wanting to die, wanting to be dead, wishing he had never been born.

Iker could only say what comforting words he could offer to the small, frail boy withdrawing sharply in the bed, and clean his arms. He stayed there a long time, next to Sergio, wishing there was something he could do.

Iker had asked to be put on Sergio's case when he had heard what happened with his other nurse. He recognized his own strength to resist Sergio's desperate, pleading advances, no matter how beautiful his warm brown eyes were, no matter how needy his voice became.

"It will be better when you have everything out of your system… you won't feel so many bad things inside of you, si? I promise. And then we can try to help figure out what is wrong."

Sergio's eyes were absolutely hopeless, were scared and angry and sad deeper than Iker could have ever thought.

Iker left Sergio curled in bed, blankets tucked around his small, bony frame.

--

Ruud had knocked on Cris' door three times before he had to pull his keys from his pocket and open the door himself. He frowned a little as he did it; Cris was usually good about opening his door for the nurses. This morning, though, Cris was still curled in bed, breathing shallow, dark lashes on his tan cheeks.

"Cris," Ruud said softly, one hand on his slender shoulder. Cris had never been one to sleep late, and it worried Ruud.

Ruud had become a nurse at the hospital a few years before. He had spent years training to be a nurse in a mental hospital after his cousin had died. He had been schizophrenic, and had killed himself when Ruud was sixteen. Ruud had been heartbroken, had promised himself that he would work with the mentally ill as soon as he was qualified.

He had expected to work with schizophrenics when he'd accepted the position there after his internship… but he didn't expect to feel his heart ache so sharply, even more than when he saw schizophrenic patients, when he looked at the dysmorphia patients. The way they were killing themselves because their minds wouldn't allow them to see how beautiful they were… it enflamed Ruud's passion for his job more than anything he had yet seen, and he knew he couldn't work with anybody else.

"Cris," he said again softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking one large hand over Cris' hair.

Cris stirred somewhat, breathing still shallow, but he was certainly awake now.

"Ruud?" Cris' voice was strained, quiet, small, and Ruud could feel the sound resonating in his heart, the ache it left in its wake remaining for longer than it ever had.

"Did you eat yesterday, kleintje?"

Cris shook his head a little, struggling to sit up, still not opening his eyes. Ruud could see in his face how tired he was, even before he opened his exhausted, sleep-stuck eyes. Ruud didn't need to tell Cris how worried he was, how the reason he was tired was because he hadn't eaten, how he needed to eat to live. Cris had heard it all before, and he had tried to listen -- Ruud had seen him eat more in one sitting than ever before after Ruud had spoken to him gently -- but it always went back to Cris not eating, trying to feel beautiful in spite of his almost skeletal appearance.

"Will you eat for me today?"

Cris nodded a little, leaning against Ruud's shoulder and curling himself there. He must have been tired, Ruud knew, to be leaning on him that way. Some days, Cris didn't want anybody to touch him at all. Today was different, obviously. Ruud slipped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close.

Cris murmured something about a dream he had had, where he was flying. Ruud nodded a little, and Cris looked up at him, smiling a little.

"Sometimes, when you're here, I want to get better."

Ruud could feel tears stinging the backs of his eyes, and he nodded, pulling Cris into a hug, which Cris returned.

"I would love it if you got better, Cris."

--

Eric had been filling out an application for a grant for the hospital for more than an hour now. He could hardly focus on the form -- had filled out the same line more than once, though it was information he knew backwards. He was tired; the hospital was underfunded, understaffed -- Eric needed help, but there was none to be found. He looked up at a framed drawing on his wall. It was quite good, of Eric's desk, done completely from memory by a former patient.

Eric kept the drawing to remind him why he did the job. The patient had died shortly after Eric had taken his position as the head practitioner at the hospital, but not before giving him the drawing. He had given Eric the name 'King Eric', and it had stuck (Eric had never liked the sound of 'Doctor Cantona' anyway).

He looked back at the paperwork he should have been focusing on, but was thankfully interrupted by a knock at the door of his office.

"Come in."

The dark wood door swung in to reveal Thierry. Eric nearly groaned. Whenever Thierry came to his office it usually ended in an argument, and with Thierry stalking out in such a French way that even Eric wanted to hit him. Behind him, though, was a hunched, scared-looking Yoann.

"He wanted to see you," Thierry said, stepping across the room easily, though Yoann stayed in the doorframe, not looking at Thierry or Eric. "He'll barely look at me, and I can't see what's wrong."

Eric stood from his desk, and nodded, exchanging a few words with Thierry and walking him to the door. There was no way Yoann would show Eric what was wrong unless they were alone. Eric knew it from experience; he was the one who had known Yoann the longest, who had known him since he was just a little boy. Yoann would show him things that he couldn't show to anybody else. He knew he could trust King Eric.

"Come in, enfant, come in," he said gently, smiling a little and placing a hand on his shoulder gently, leading him inside. Thierry shot him a look over his shoulder, one of worry and anxiety -- one he only got over Yoann and the young soldier who had recently become a patient.

Yoann sat down in the chair behind Eric's desk -- Eric's chair, but it was where he always sat. His eyes were nervous, terrified even, still lowered away from Eric's face, and his knuckles were white with how tightly his hands were clenched in his lap. He looked very small.

Eric sat down on the edge of the desk, smiling gently down at Yoann.

"Quel est le problème, petit Yoann?" Eric's French was soft, gentle. Yoann finally looked at him, his shoulders relaxing just a little. His eyes still said fear, and Eric reached out to touch his hair gently.

"Qu'est ce-que c'est, dans les mains, ma biche?" He asked, looking down at Yoann's tightly clenched fingers, out of which peeked a crumpled picture that Eric couldn't see all of. Yoann let his fingers come unclenched, smoothing the picture out against his knee. He held it out to Eric without a sound, his eyes watering. Eric took the picture from his hands -- a photograph of a young boy, one who must have been Yoann, and his parents.

"Vos parents?"

Yoann nodded, biting his lip so hard the skin turned white and then red, the skin close to breaking.

Eric knelt in front of Yoann urgently, dark eyes fixing on Yoann's nervous green ones. Yoann swallowed, opened his mouth soundlessly, closed it. Eric could see tears in his eyes.

"Ils ne peuvent pas te faire de mal maintenant, chouchou," he said, his voice very firm, hands clasping both of Yoann's shoulders.

Yoann's tears fell silently down his cheeks, soundless sobs wracking his body sharply. King Eric pulled Yoann into his arms, lifting him from the chair so they were both standing.

--

Doctor Berbatov had been working with Kaka for more than a week now on a new track. God had told him that it would be alright, that everything would be fine as long as he followed instructions. Kaka had listened -- had told Berbatov about every time that God had spoken to him, everything that God had told him since he was fifteen.

Berbatov had listened intently, though his eyes had constantly been nervous, and he'd written down countless notes for Kaka's chart. He had smiled gently every time that Kaka had mentioned how much he loved God, and that had reassured Kaka -- let him know that Berbatov didn't want to take God away from him, not really.

Dimitar had been worried about what another antipsychotic could do to Kaka in the long term. He had brought his concerns to King Eric, who had asked if he'd had another option in mind, and of course, Berbatov had -- therapy, to figure out the reason for Kaka's hallucinations, and perhaps an antidepressant. It would correct the chemical imbalance in his brain and hopefully stop the auditory hallucinations. At least, that was what Dimitar was counting on. King Eric gave him free reign, and Berbatov took the opportunity.

Kaka had been given his pills just before he went to sleep by Berbatov himself. Dimitar had practically tucked him in, sitting at his bedside for a short while with a cup of pills in his hand, explaining to Kaka that the purpose was the same as the other medications they had tried, but hopefully, this would work better -- would keep him from becoming overly anxious. He had made sure Kaka took the pills, which he did so without protest, giving Berbatov a big smile once he'd shown the underside of his tongue.

Berbatov had patted his hand and stayed there until he fell asleep. He couldn't help but be concerned; this was the toughest case of schizophrenia he had ever had.

In the morning, Kaka opened his eyes, lying on his back, in his bed. The sun shone through the window -- it was bright, midmorning sun, and it was beautiful. But the tears formed in Kaka's eyes after a moment, more quickly than he could process them.

The world was quiet.

He leapt from his bed, running his fingers into his hair, clutching at it. He whimpered softly, shaking his head, tears rolling down his cheeks, terror and anguish wrinkling his forehead and drawing more soft cries from him.

"Oh, Deus," he said softly, his voice strained already from the effort not to sob. "Deus, por que me abanonaste?"

There was no answer.

Kaka sobbed, falling to his knees and surely bruising them, beating tight fists against the floor. "No, no, no," he cried, barely a whisper in the too-silent room.

He stood quickly, opening his door, looking down the hallway in both directions, frantically. There were no nurses, no orderlies, no doctors -- nobody. He could hear sounds of life from the other rooms, from the lounge down the hall, but none in the corridor. He was starting to panic -- there was nobody to tell that God had gone away, that God had let go of his hand and now he was alone, all alone.

Kaka put his fist through the window in the nurse's station, which had been empty at the time. The glass had shattered easily over his hand, had cut his hand innumerable times. He picked up one of the shards of glass and, with a soft cry, slashed his skin, and went back to his room.

It was only ten minutes before a nurse discovered him, laying in bed, starting to lose consciousness, tears still streaming down his face, murmuring softly.

"Jesus lhe disse: 'Eu sou a ressurreição ea vida.' Aqueles que crêem em mim, ainda que morra, como todos os demais, viverão de novo."

FOUR HUNDRED BABIES

somnallocution — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 23:43:15 GMT

I LIKE BABY NAMES THEREFORE

Emma
- Emma Marie
- Emma Eileen
- Emma Dylan
Addison
- Addison Eileen
Abigail
- Abigail Eileen
Adelaide
- Adelaide Eileen
Allison
- Allison Eileen
- Allison Brynne
Aurelia
- Aurelia Eileen
- Aurelia Ciel
Dylan
- Dylan Eileen
Merlyn
- Merlyn Eileen
Eileen
- Eileen Flora
Brighid
- Brighid Eileen
- Brighid Anabelle
Keelie
- Keelie Eileen
- Keelie Ardis
Sloane
- Sloane Eileen
- Sloane Marie
Ciel
- Ciel Eileen
Etoile
- Etoile Eileen
- Etoile Addison
Coligny
- Coligny Eileen
- Coligny Marie
Coralie
- Coralie Eileen
- Coralie Merlyn
Delainey
- Delainey Eileen
- Delainey Katharine
- Delainey Isolde

Anthony
- Anthony Dylan
- Anthony Bran
Aidan
- Aidan Rhys
- Aidan Darrah
Aaron
- Aaron Darrah
- Aaron Rhodri
Dylan
- Dylan Rhodri
- Dylan Lloyd
Rhys
- Rhys Brennan
- Rhys Peter
- Rhys Patrick
Bran
- Bran Lee
- Bran Patrick
Lloyd
- Lloyd Rhodri
- Lloyd Murphy
Mabon
- Mabon Rhys
- Mabon Darrah
Rhodri
- Rhodri Dylan
- Rhodri Darrah
- Rhodri Patrick
Ardal
- Ardal Rhodri
- Ardal Peter
Brendan
- Brendan Rhodri
- Brendan Gilroy
- Brendan Patrick
Brennan
- Brennan Cormac
- Brennan Rhys
Cormac
- Cormac Rhys
- Cormac Connor
- Cormac Darrah
Connor
- Connor Darrah
- Connor Rhys
- Connor Gilroy
Darrah
- Darrah Gilroy
- Darrah Rhys
- Darrah Lloyd
- Darrah Rhodri
Gilroy
- Gilroy Rhys
- Gilroy Cormac
- Gilroy Rhodri
Murphy
- Murphy Rhys
- Murphy Mabon
Quinlan
- Quinlan Patrick
- Quinlan Rhodri
- Quinlan Cormac
Patrick
- Patrick Rhodri
- Patrick Connor
- Patrick Rhys

oh damn.

somnallocution — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 09:13:16 GMT

New journal doesn't feel like home, and I miss writing. I'm totally blocked for creative writing so I have to kind of word vomit for a while, I'm thinking.

OMFG, COLLEGE. My roommate Nathalie ~~might be~~ is among my favourite people. She and I get along really well, even though we're sort of different. She's a psych major. She is about fifty million percent better than Ashley Jones, Satan's babymama (this title comes courtesy of coffins ♥). Aside from roommate problems in the beginning, I adore school. I have loved almost every class I've been in (theology has made me interested in the bible but I also want to punch everything to do with it, discover NY and photo have been supremely awkward because my professor was, er. A little conservative, to say the least).

I'm home on winter break right now... to be honest, I'm looking forward to going back to school. I miss New York. I'm glad to be here with friends and the brofiend, but honestly... I want to get back to my booklearnin'. I miss school, I miss Nathalie and Dan, and Katherine, and Katie and Daniella. I miss being in class and staying up until three thirty with Nathalie, at which point we both say, "Shit, I haven't even STARTED my homework." I miss my art history professor's quips about Jesus. I'm ready to go back and learn and stuff (as much as I will miss Andrew and my friends while I am there and they are elsewhere).

I have listened to too much Mountain Goats in the past three hours.

I'm getting my wisdom teeth out in about thirty six hours. I am not excited. I am rather terrified, in fact. I already look like a fucking chipmunk, how do you suppose my face will look when it's all swollen and horrible? I have a prescription for Vicodin and one for Halcion and about four others. I could be a drug dealer and skip the extraction... D:

Oh, stupid dog ate retainer, also. Shit. XD

I am feeling rather despondent tonight and I don't know why. I need to do SO MUCH LAUNDRY. I need a cuddle and for someone to take me to breakfast. I am going to read some more and then go to sleep, I think.

WELCOME ME BACK HOME TO MY JOURNAL? :C

somnallocution — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 01:54:30 GMT

I'm leaving this livejournal.

thank your lucky stars everything i wish for will never come true

somnallocution — Wed, 20 May 2009 21:42:31 GMT

People are stupid. Most of everyone forever probably knew this already. But they really are. I'm not gonna make excuses for myself, or do anything to get anyone back -- I don't want them back. I'm allowed to have an opinion, and I'm allowed to express it however I damn well please. Wherever I damn well please. And I'm not sorry for it, either -- I'm not sorry if I offend you or if I make you mad. I'm not sorry for any of that.

Anyway. Today was mostly LOLDRAMA and full of delicious bagel. I forgot how much I liked peanut butter until I started eating it on my bagels. I also forgot how much I like snuggling. Not really XD I love snuggling unabashedly. I love my friends, too. They're fucking great and have been awesome about like... everything. They agree with me, and it's nice.

I'm actually feeling pretty awesome in general. I'm a senior. And I only have a few weeks of school left... and that's such a good feeling to have.

meme: tagged by coffins!

somnallocution — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 04:44:28 GMT

Handwrite the following and then upload!
1. Your name/username.
2. Left-handed or right-handed?
3. Favourite letters to write?
4. Least favourite letters to write?
5. Write "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog".
6. Tag 5 people.

Top is, obv, cursive, and bottom is printed (as much as I print anything...)

WTF, rolling stone

somnallocution — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 07:31:50 GMT

Okay. So. Rolling Stone put out a list of the top 100 singers of all time.

01. Aretha Franklin
02. Ray Charles
03. Elvis Presley
04. Sam Cooke
05. John Lennon
06. Marvin Gaye
07. Bob Dylan
08. Otis Redding
09. Stevie Wonder
10. James Brown
11. Paul McCartney
12. Little Richard
13. Roy Orbison
14. Al Green
15. Robert Plant
16. Mick Jagger
17. Tina Turner
18. Freddie Mercury
19. Bob Marley
20. Smokey Robinson
21. Johnny Cash
22. Etta James
23. David Bowie
24. Van Morrison
25. Michael Jackson
26. Jackie Wilson
27. Hank Williams
28. Janis Joplin
29. Nina Simone
30. Prince
31. Howlin' Wolf
32. Bono
33. Steve Winwood
34. Whitney Houston
35. Dusty Springfield
36. Bruce Springsteen
37. Niel Young
38. Elton John
39. Jeff Buckley
40. Curtis Mayfield
41. Chuck Berry
42. Joni Mitchell
43. George Jones
44. Bobby Blue Bland
45. Kurt Cobain
46. Patsy Kline
47. Jim Morrison
48. Buddy Holly
49. Donny Hathaway
50. Bonnie Raitt
51. Gladys Knight
52. Brian Wilson
53. Muddy Waters
54. Luther Vandross
55. Paul Rodgers
56. Mavis Staples
57. Eric Burdon
58. Christina Aguillera
59. Rod Stewart
60. Bjork
61. Roger Daltrey
62. Lou Reed
63. Dion
64. Axl Rose
65. David Ruffin
66. Thom Yorke
67. Jerry Lee Lewis
68. Wilson Pickett
69. Ronnie Spector
70. Gregg Allman
71. Toots Hibbert
72. John Fogerty
73. Dolly Parton
74. James Taylor
75. Iggy Pop
76. Steve Perry
77. Merle Haggard
78. Sly Stone
79. Mariah Carey
80. Frankie Valli
81. John Lee Hooker
82. Tom Waits
83. Patti Smyth
84. Darlene Love
85. Sam Moore
86. Art Garfunkle
87. Don Henley
88. Willie Nelson
89. Soloman Burke
90. The Everly Brothers
91. Levon Helm
92. Morrissey
93. Annie Lennox
94. Karen Carpenter
95. Patti LaBelle
96. B. B. King
97. Joe Cocker
98. Stevie Nicks
99. Steven Tyler
100. Mary J. Blige

Okay. So I have a few problems with this.

1. FREDDIE IS AT EIGHTEEN. THIS BOTHERS ME. A LOT. Freddie Mercury should be at the VERY LEAST above Bob Dylan. I love Bob Dylan. But when you consider the technical skill Mercury had, the fact that he had a four-octave range, and managed to keep both of these things until very close to his death whilst having vocal nodes and no formal training, he should be at the very least in the top ten. AT THE LEAST.

2. WHY THE FUCK IS MARY J. BLIGE ON THIS LIST

3. Where is Ella? Where is Ella Fitzgerald on this list? She had a fucking PHENOMINAL voice. Same goes for Edith Piaf, Billy Joel, Eric Clapton, and Billy Corgan. Corgan's more my pick than the other ones, but for serious, guys? WHERE IS SINATRA?

4. I have issues with the placement of Thom Yorke, Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison, David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Jeff Buckley, Lou Reed, Axl Rose, Tom Waits, Morrissey, Stevie Nicks, and Karen Carpenter. Aside from Dylan, ALL of those singers should be moved up from the positions they're in now.

5. NO SERIOUSLY, WHY THE FUCK IS MARY J. BLIGE ON THIS LIST, WTFFF

6. Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain, and Bjork, imho, should be moved to the bottom of the list, if not taken off. Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston should be taken off... the rest, I suppose, can be left on, though Kurt's singing ability was not the greatest.

I dunno, guys. What do you think? I think this list is a little cracked out, tbh.

true love lives on lollipops and crisps.

somnallocution — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 08:33:30 GMT

I've been neglecting my LJ hella bad. XD

I'm whore #1 in Les Mis! This is a good thing. :D I'm happy beyond belief that I got the part, really. I needed it. If I hadn't gotten it, I'd have been pretty damn upset. Mostly because Berger all but promised the part to me. And I pretty much expected him to go back on his promise. And even though I'd have stayed in the show, I'd have been bitter about it. REALLY bitter.

The singing rehearsals will get better, I know they will. The number of talented singers in the cast is bigger than I thought it was, and it makes me happy that there are certain parts filled already. Berger still hasn't put up the rehearsal schedule, though, and that makes me want to cut a bitch.

I have no more college apps due until Feb. 1! this is exciting. My list has changed A LOT. I'm applying to:

St. John's University

Parsons, The New School For Design

Pratt Institute

State University of New York at Purchase College (Art & Design Conservatory)

State University of New York at Geneseo (I'd likely be going for liberal arts/English if I went here)

School of Visual Arts (applied)

School of Visual Arts and St. John's both accepted my portfolio. I'm pretty happy with my applications list. I know I probably won't get into some of them (namely Pratt, though I hope I can get into Purchase, even though the photography professor who reviewed my portfolio was a dick and made several people, not just me, cry), but I'm okay with that. I'd really like to go to St. John's, tbh. They have really good study abroad programs and really good financial aid. Even though I know I'll be in debt until I'm forty, at least.

Anyway, I'm sleepy. So I'm going to go to bed now and hope that I wake up before two in the afternoon tomorrow. Because I need to stop sleeping so late. XD

Les Mis

somnallocution — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 01:27:32 GMT

So I didn't get a callback. And I'm feeling very self righteous because I know I can sing far better than a good number of people on the list. At least four. I'm really happy that Ari got a callback, because she really, really deserves Mme Thenardier. But I'm angry. Because I sang that song better than I have ever sung anything. Especially in an audition. And yet, hm.

Anyway. I'll be more bitter about this when I'm not in a diner in Roscoe.

BILLIONS OF THINGS

somnallocution — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 16:06:25 GMT

1. Les Mis auditions are on Saturday! AHHH! I'm very excited and nervous and I know I won't get the part I want, but I want it, so I'm going to try anyway. I want to be Fantine. I can sing the part really well, not gonna lie, but Dugan barely knows me. Anyway. The informational meeting is today and I'm hoping they're making the audition song something hella low. :D

2. I really like Jeff Buckley. I'm listening to Grace, the album that apparently ninety percent of the United States lost their virginity to. XD It's gorgeous and the title track is about the prettiest thing I've ever heard. I love me some harmony and wailing.

3. MY NEW DEFAULT ICON IS SO CUTE.

4. I've started to read the fanfiction I've been ignoring for the past few months, and I've been wearing a lot more flannel. It's lovely.

5. I neglected to tell my F-list that the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan accepted my portfolio! This basically means that as soon as I apply, I'm pretty much in. Which is just about the best thing I could have hoped for. Let's hope they give shitloads of financial aid. I've decided that January first at two AM I'm sending in my FAFSA (Federal Student Aid, for those of you that don't know) so I can get as much financial aid from the government as possible. It's really exciting. Karen got full tuition to Pitt and is already accepted to grad school. Which is really exciting, considering that means that, you know, people in our class are going to go to college. It's a weird thought, even though I've been waiting to go to college since I was about thirteen years old.

6. It looks as though Saxby Chambliss, the republican senator from Atlanta, stole a bunch of votes. Enough to make him win over the democratic candidate, Jim Martin. Do you know what this means? This isn't exciting for anyone but me, but it means Georgia might flip over to be a blue state. WOOOO!

I think I've stretched your fpages enough. If you don't know that I love you, then I'm telling you now.

Election 2008

somnallocution — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 02:57:19 GMT

9:55 PM
OMG OMG OMG OMG HE ONLY NEEDS WASHINGTON, CALIFORNIA, OREGON, AND HAWAII TO WIN. OMG OMG OMG. JFDL;SFJDSJFSL;FDSJSL;. SO EXCITED. HOPE TO GOD DOLLINGER WINS K. :D

11:34 PM
WE WON SO HARD.
ASHFLHSDKFHS;DGHLSD;;DFJG;JFGJLSGHKDSFSDHFSDF;DSHKFHKSDG;LDS.

writer's block fuck fuck fuck

somnallocution — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 02:03:18 GMT

I have writer's block like nobody's business, and nobody probably even reads my LJ anymore, but I need to write like nothing else. I reeeeeeeally need to. Thusly,

FIC MEME FOR EVERYONE FOREVER
It doesn't matter if you're on my flist or if you found me through google blogsearch or LJ interests or fucking ANYTHING, but

1) Comment with a pairing and fandom (I will do any fandom, that's how desperate I am) and one thing you absolutely cannot live without oh my god you will go into cardiac arrest if I don't include this in your fic
2) I will write you a shortish fic (or long, depending) based on your choices.

PLEASE GOD WILL YOU GUYS DO THIS FOR ME, I NEED TO START WRITING SOMETHING SO I CAN WRITE THE FOUR THINGS I'VE BEEN WORKING ON. :/

D:

fucking sigh

somnallocution — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 21:09:54 GMT

ETA: This isn't directed at anyone who reads my LJ.

I just want to tell almost everyone I'm friends with:

I'm not stupid. Stop treating me like I am, or I'm not going to talk to you about fucking anything anymore. I joke around to make people laugh, not because I'm stupid, and you'd know that if you had an ounce of humor in you that didn't rely on laughing at other peoples' hardship. So fuck off, yeah? I am perceptive enough to realise that you think I'm stupid.

To one of you in particular, you're not better than I am. You've done worse shit than I have, and at this point, that's saying something, so fuck you for being such a hypocrite. You've done the same thing twice, so suck it if you think you're somehow better than me. Just because it happened two years ago doesn't mean you have any fucking right to tell me that I'm not good enough to be someone's friend because of it, or imply at, or TALK TO ME ABOUT IT AT ALL.

It's not okay for you to make me feel stupid, because I'm not, and if you don't let me get things out in my own time, then you're not getting the full story anyway. Deny everything I say if you want to, but you'll always be wrong and if I have to, I'll beat you over the head with this: YOU'RE A HYPOCRITE. And if you don't understand that, I hope to god that someone you love realises it and calls you out on it so maybe you'll have the fucking sense to change.

Yes, I did something wrong. Yes, I betrayed a friend. Yes, I did something fucking awful, and I know that, and I feel fucking terrible about it, but you're the biggest fucking hypocrite I've ever met. "Put your skirt down" when yours flies up because you've decided to skip in it, in public, no less. Putting me down every chance you get and acting like I'm creepy or weird in a bad way for doing certain things, when you'd have no problem with it if it were someone else. Dressing like a slut and giving me dirty looks when I wear anything that makes me look even moderately attractive. And let me make it clear, it will NEVER be your decision to make that I make bad choices; you make bad choices too and you've alienated two of your best friends because you can't stop being a fucking hypocrite.

So you know what? Fuck you. You can act like I'm stupid all you want; you're a shitty friend and a shitty person and I don't know why anyone would want to be friends with you in the first place. You're a stuck up bitch, and at this point, I can't wait until you go to college and fuck up everything by letting your boyfriend follow you there and I will never have to see you again. I hope someone you're friends with is as stuck up and mean and horrible to you as you have been to me.

i'm in a new york state of mind

somnallocution — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 18:23:08 GMT

I'm going to New York in less than an hour, so of course I have to be the quintessential emo kid and post in my LJ about it. I'm really excited. It tends to be a problem for me that I enjoy cartrips a lot. And I'm going to be spending approximately eight hours in a car. Which is good times for me.

I'm seeing Speed The Plow, which should be excellent (Raúl Esparza!) and possibly another show. The kicker, though, is that I get to run around unsupervised and buy things. Like clothes, and shoes, and dhilsfhsd;f I'm excited.

We're staying in someone's apartment near Central Park west, I think. I dunno exactly where. I just know I can't wait to get there and be there and dji;fjsd;fj SOMEONE TELL ME TO STOP FREAKING OUT.

I'm not even packed yet, and will have approximately fifteen minutes to pack the rest of my shit. But I don't care! I'm really excited anyway! :D

I'll probably update with a picspam when I get back Monday. :D BAI!

meet me tonight in atlantic city.

somnallocution — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 05:51:00 GMT

The past few weeks have been rather uneventful. I got my senior pictures retaken and know which one I'm going to pick. I've started writing a ridiculous fic in a ridiculous verse, that I'm completely in love with so far and can't wait to finish. I dyed my hair a darker brown colour. I found out that I can't be in stage crew for Noises Off even though I asked a good month and a half ago. Someone hates my guts now, and I know who...

Anyway. I have coloured bubbles, and if you want to download some Counting Crows covers, they're here.

I don't really know what to write about. I suppose I should talk about the fact that I have no fucking idea about Paradise Lost. At all. Ever.

Tonight is really not a good night, because I'm only gonna emo it up here. I feel like crap and I don't know why, really.

I have two major scratches on my back from climbing over a fence at Village Gate. I was stealing a foot-high plastic bunny and foot-high plastic deer. The guy who owned them came out after I started walking around to the other side. He was being creepy with Maria and Sam, the two girls whose pictures I was taking.

I want to get a snug on my right ear, but I have zero money. This is a problem. I also need some new clothes, tbh, because a lot of mine don't fit or are generally awful. I did just get a new grandma sweater, though. It's pretty sexy.

Kindly take notice of this fucking amazing icon.

somnallocution — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 00:32:03 GMT

5:40:16 PM Vasia: Keavy, why does life suck sometimes? v_v
5:40:43 PM Keavy: because without the lows, the highs wouldn't be as high and life wouldn't be as beautiful.
5:41:25 PM Keavy: the beauty of grace is that it isn't equally spread over every moment. and that it makes certain things more special.
5:41:36 PM Keavy: ...sorry
5:41:39 PM Vasia: ...
5:41:47 PM Keavy: went ~philosophical on you there

three very quick things as it is now 2:30 in the fucking morning

somnallocution — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 06:46:19 GMT

1) Two videos of me singing, one of the Senior homecoming dance. Dork dork dork dork

2) I originally was looking for this album for coffins, and only could find about six songs off of it. Hang On Little Tomato, by Pink Martini. The zip contains six songs off of the album she wanted, and one entitled "Je Ne Veux Pas Travailler" (I do Not Want To Work), which I learned to sing for French class in seventh grade. Wooo. :* via Sendspace.

3) I may be going to a Mighty Mighty Bosstones show in Buffalo soon! Look at Keavy, gettin' her ska on! Woooo! I'm very excited about it. The show I'd be going to is October 11th. Ahfdlshgkldsg. I can't wait.

too tired

somnallocution — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 06:17:20 GMT

I just woke up after being asleep for maybe, oh, an hour and a half. Unfortunately instead of staying up all night Friday, I'm having the distinct trend of falling asleep around one and waking up at 2, 3, or 4, to find that whoever I'm talking to (Melia) has fallen asleep not half an hour earlier.

I need to find a way to sleep later on Fridays so that this doesn't happen, or to drink hella caffeine without getting a headache. Because I am so sick of my Fridays starting out really epic but tailing off because I can't keep my fucking eyes open. XD

HELP

somnallocution — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 16:34:17 GMT

PICK WHICH ONE PLEASE. I DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE I LIKE. I FEEL LIKE I LOOK GREASY XD

1

2

3

4

5

please tell me what you think, guys, i dunno which of those five i like, or if i even like them. colleen's awesome, i'm just terribly unphotogenic. XD

so much funnier without context

somnallocution — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 22:08:33 GMT

3:36:42 PM somnallocution: god, our economy
3:36:46 PM coffins: god
3:36:51 PM coffins: with your pricey lemons

This week was hellish in some ways and excellent in others. I get to use a Canon Digital Rebel XTi in photo class, which has been amazing. Portfolio Prep is awesome and I feel great taking art classes, because I get to get up and move around and not be stuck in a chair all day. AP Lit is excellent. AP French is excellent. Film is excellent. Even math is fun.

My issue is more how out-of-place I feel. I feel like the freshmen know who Beth is, but they wouldn't look at me twice because I'm sort of quiet. I dunno. I'm very out-of place this year, probably with good reason. Anyway.

Too lazy to write anymore.

BABIES! THEY'RE BABIES!

somnallocution — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 19:35:00 GMT

On a much happier note than my post last night, I have two children on facebook.

I just wanted to show them off. :X They belong to me and coffins, and they're the cutest things on legs.

true love waits in haunted attics, and true love lives on lollipops and crisps.

somnallocution — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 05:55:54 GMT

It's probably bad that "I Miss You" by Blink-182 can still make me cry. Though, lately, almost anything can make me cry. At least, it could at the beginning of the week. Now I just mostly feel empty. I don't want to do anything. I just want to stay home and sleep. I don't really want to feel anything at all. It's stupid and maybe it's because school's starting and I'm scared about college apps and stuff, and after all the shit that's happened this summer, I'm well aware I've made about twelve million mistakes, but I'm not sure what it is exactly. It feels like being gutted with a knife when I think about everything I've done. And I curl up inside my unhappiness and feel like dying. I don't want to see anyone here, I don't want to talk to anyone here. I just want to move away and start over or go home to Atlanta.

Too much Radiohead has me fucked in the head. I'm going to sleep before I get any more depressed.