"There's a time to inhale. And a time to exhale. And a time to just scream it all out,"

~Anonymous

Michael knew he shouldn't. He knew it, but he just couldn't help it. He knew there had to be other ways, better ways, but he just couldn't help it.

The cool metal rested on his mutilated wrist, but did nothing to ease the burn of anticipation for what was to come. He just wanted relief. So without another thought he applied the tiniest bit of pressure and the blade ripped open his soft, delicate, porcelain skin and blood slowly bubbled up. He pressed harder cutting deeper and the blood came out faster.

A soundtrack of all the hurtful things he had been called played in Michael's head and his own sub-conscious chanted along with it. He recalled his dad's fist against his jaw and his cheek and cut his skin again.

He wanted to stop, he wanted to flush the blades away and get help, but Michael was drowning. And this was the one thing that helped keep his head above the choppy water. He cut around the cuts from yesterday morning, cutting mercilessly. Michael wasn't just drowning, he was lost at sea. And nobody was coming to save him from himself.

Each cut bought him a breath of oxygen, but at a costly price. He was addicted, addicted to the blood that was now beginning to form a small pool on the floor by his knees, addicted to the pain that put his mind at ease. It's like a drug to Michael, a drug he couldn't quit. And like any good drug, he knew one day he could take it too far and land himself 6 feet under.

Michael couldn't care less.

He stopped when he ran out of room to cut. Stopped when his porcelain skin was ripped and blood was seeping all over the place. He was careful not to get any on himself as he stood up and stumbled the few feet to the sink. Michael was light headed due to the blood loss, but he didn't mind, it meant his thoughts were slowed and subdued and Michael could almost see a glimpse of his previous happy-go-lucky self before he was clouded over with darkness.

Michael woke up an hour or so later on the floor of the bathroom. His blood has dried on his wrists and the cuts have stopped bleeding. Michael knows he has to attend to his left arm, needs to bandage it, but he's still dizzy, it could be from the blood loss or maybe it's because he hasn't eaten anything, but the eighth of a muffin from the shop Luke works at.

Michael forces his body to move and stands in front of the sink. He washes the dry blood carelessly off his wrist reopening nearly all of the cuts. He reaches under the sink into the cupboard and takes out the large roll of gauze. Michael wastes no time in wrapping the gauze around his forearm, and quickly stashes it back before he leaves the bathroom, dragging his feet as he walks to his room.

He's tired.

Not physically, or mentally. But Michael is emotionally drained. He finally feels numb, and he can't seem to make sense of his surroundings. He's lost and disoriented and he hates that he's not alert and aware, but it's his method of coping. It's the only way he can turn his brain off for even a little while.

Michael likes numb, but the side effects might just kill him. And Michael can't find it in him to care if he does.

He wants to sleep quickly, before the reality of what he has just done hits him. He was twenty-nine hours clean and everything. Not that that's much of an accomplishment. But Michael knows that when he wakes up he'll be horrified with himself, he'll hate himself even more and he knows when he gets home from school tomorrow it's almost a guarantee that he'll do it again.

Michael's just trying to cope.

Michael's tired, but he's not sleepy, so he sits on his bed and does his homework like a good little boy, but Michael is anything but good, he's riddled with bad. It lives in his bones, and his blood. It makes up who he is and he can't escape it.

Michael is bad.

Homework completed, Michael stretches out on the bed and covers his eyes with his hands, or his sweater paws, and tries desperately to suppress the on-coming tears. He's not sure why he's crying. It could be the overall sh*tiness of his life, or the fact that he just cut, or maybe that he's just so tired of being alive. Michael can't make sense of his thoughts. They're all jumbled together and screaming at him. Yelling that he's a failure. Telling him he's a disappointment. Calling him names that only the sickest of minds would even dare to think. And Michael wants to scream. He wants to cut again but he has no room on either wrist and Michael's too lazy to wrestle off his jeans to cut his thighs.

One minute his brain is shouting. Screaming for someone. Pleading for help. And the next it's flooded with Luke and Michael's spinning aimlessly. Everything seems to point him back to Luke.

Fag.

Ryan called you a fag today.

Luke was there.

Luke.

Michael can't make his brain shut up. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to feel. And Luke is screwing that up. He's stirring something buried deep inside Michael. Something Michael's never felt and was never planning on feeling. And now Michael's scared. Scared and lonely and bad. Michael's bad and Luke is so very good. Michael doesn't want to poison Luke. He'll do the History project with him and cut himself out of Luke's life. He's not worried about cutting Luke out of his own because who knows it might cause Michael more pain if he doesn't. Michael likes hurting himself. Almost as much as he likes words.

He wonders distantly if there's a word for someone who likes to hurt themselves, but it's so very distant that Michael's not even sure if he even thought it. He thinks and thinks and thinks, and Michael hates it. He wants to stop. Stop thinking, stop breathing, stop existing. Because Michael can't call what he's doing living. He's just there. Another broken porcelain boy in a world where everything is balanced ever so carefully, and boy does Michael know how fast things can change. And even worse he doesn't know how long it takes to fix it, because Michael is still stuck. A broken boy in a world where everything has to be perfect.

His thoughts are mixing again. The calmness after he cuts is leaving and Michael's brain is slowly spiralling into insanity again, though with Michael's definition he was insane years ago. He's four and confused when his dad smells funny and hits him. He's seven and crying as his mum touches him and tells him how terrible he is. He's eight and sad when his friends tell him they can't talk to him anymore. He's ten and angry when he sees his reflection. He's thirteen and confused because he's crushing on the boy in maths. He's thirteen still and lost because his parents said he's not there son. He's fourteen and he's scared of his head, he cries for the last time. He's sixteen and he wants to die. He's seventeen and numb, he still wants to die. He's eighteen and barely existing. And then he's back on his bed.

And he still wants to die.

Michael actually sleeps. He gets a good six hours before his phone goes off at four in the morning again. His brain has calmed down and his thoughts are coherent, but if anything Michael feels worse than last night because the gauze on his wrist is screaming at him. Because it means he's weak.

He leaves on the skinny jeans again marking the third day of wearing them in a row, and trades his white sweater for a dark grey one the same colour as the charcoal he used to find on the street. He pulls on his leather jacket and tugs his sweater sleeves down so he has sweater paws again. In the bathroom the boy in black brushes his teeth and finger combs his hair ruffling it and giving up. He notices that he needs a shower and decides to do it later before he scrubs the dried blood off the floor and leaves. He remembers his backpack at the last minute and returns to his room to get it. He's so close, the door to leave is feet away when a gruff voice speaks.

"Where the f*ck are you going faggot?"

Michael freezes and his entire demeanor changes. The voice in his head stays silent waiting to watch what happens, waiting to memorize every agonizing second so the boy in black can re-see it all when he sleeps.

"School, dad," Michael muttered.

"I thought I told you not to call me dad ever again," his dad growled at him.

"Sorry sir," Michael muttered.

His dad nodded. "You better be f*cking sorry, you piece of sh*t," his dad is hungover, Michael realizes with a jolt. He's not going to do anything physical.

Michael makes his escape and hurries out the door rushing away from his house. His feet carry him without command and he finds himself entering the place Luke works. Michael's eyes widen a fraction when he sees the blonde look at him and smile. Michael averts his eyes and bows his head. He makes his way to the same table as yesterday and sits with his head down just passing the time.

He should eat. He hasn't eaten since that eighth of a muffin, but Michael can't be bothered. If he starves himself slowly to death then so what? At least he's dead. It saves everyone else a lot of trouble.

"Hey, Mikey," Luke cheers as he sits himself down across from the boy in black.

Michael's fighting a war and he loses. "Hey, Luke,"

Michael's voice is soft and hesitant and he instantly regrets speaking but when he looks up it's to see a full blown smile on Luke's face. The smile however quickly disappears when Michael's head lifts a little too high.

"Mikey what happened to your face?" Luke asks, eyebrows furrowing in concern as his hand flies out to cup Michael's cheek.

Michael flinches away when Luke's hand moves towards him and both boy's freeze.

"Y-you thought I was going to hit you," the blonde sounds crushed and it's not even a question.

Michael tilts his head down further and neither confirms nor denies the blondes suspicions.

"Answer me, Michael," his voice is soft and firm at the same time. "Dammit, Michael," this time his voice is a faint plea like he's begging the boy to tell him that, 'no, Luke, I didn't think you were going to hit me'. But when Michael glances up Luke finds his eyes filled with tears and he sees a broken boy. He sees Michael. "Oh my God, Mikey," Luke's voice breaks and he's out of his seat before Michael can react and his arms are around the small boy. And Luke realizes just how small he is, he can feel Michael's ribs.

Michael doesn't know what to do. He can't remember being hugged. Slowly, uncertainly, Michael returns the hug. His thin arms wrapping around the blonde and suddenly Michael's not even sure he'll ever let go. His head is buried in the boy's neck and his fingers are fisting his shirt, clinging to him for dear life. He's pulling Luke tighter against him and he's crumbling, hanging onto Luke to hold himself together. He's inhaling the boy's scent and doubting himself. He's shaking desperately and wondering if he could convince Luke to hold him forever. And for the first time in four years, Michael Clifford cries.

Luke knows the rumours about the heart of ice. He knows how long it's been since Michael shed a tear, and now he's clutching the boy in his arms as he breaks down. Michael's clinging to him. His hands are grasping his shirt tightly and his head is buried in Luke's shoulder, and Luke can't do anything but hold him. So he does. He holds the broken boy as carefully as he can. He's not afraid of being cut on the sharp edges because this isn't just some broken boy, this is Michael the boy that's consuming his thoughts and taking over his life. And if Michael needs Luke, Luke will be there.

"I-I'm sor-ry f-for breaking d-down like that," Michael mutters nearly ten minutes later pulling away from Luke. "I sh-shouldn't h-have done th-that," Michael rubs at his eyes furiously and finds himself still crying.

"F*ck, Michael. I don't care," Luke tells him.

Michael shakes his head as more tears leak down his cheeks. "d-don't l-lie, Luke," Michael lets out a sob and buries his head in his hands.

"F*ck. Michael, please don't cry. You're too beautiful to cry," Luke pleads pulling Michael's hands away from his face.

Michael looks at Luke through watery, tear-filled eyes. "Y-you think I'm beautiful?" the boy asks. Michael's shocked, he's far from beautiful, with his greasy dyed hair, his ghostly pale skin, the bags under his red swollen eyes.

"Of course," Luke whispers, "So very beautiful,"

Michael sobs and covers his mouth with his hands shaking his head. "Y-you're lying. Don't l-lie to m-me. I-it makes it hurt more," he says.

"'M not lying, Mikey," Luke whispers moving closer to Michael. "You are so beautiful, kitten. So, so beautiful," Luke presses his lips to Michael's forehead and the smaller boy sobs again, his arms wrapping around Luke in another hug. Michael shuts his eyes in hopes of stopping to flow of tears, and Luke shuts them as he pulls Michael closer squeezing them shut tightly in emotional pain.

Michael's a mess. Four years of hiding everything from everyone and here he is sobbing into the arms of an angel. Michael hates that he can't control himself. He hates that his inner arm is squished against Luke's muscular back and that the pain reminds him of everything there is to hate about himself.

Time ticks on and Michael knows he has to leave so he can make it to school in time. It's raining outside and Michael really doesn't want to leave Luke's arms.

"I have to leave for school," Michael mutters squirming away from Luke who hugs him tighter. "I have to walk,"

"Nope," Luke denies. "We're skipping. Besides, I would have driven you. It's raining outside,"

Michael's arms are already around Luke again. "I'm a pluviophile," he mutters.

"A what?"

"I like the rain,"

Luke laughs lightly. "I like that you talk to me now," Luke commented.

Is there a word for that? Michael wondered. He wasn't crying anymore. His mind had calmed down and he could breathe again.

He felt Luke sigh in content and found that he was nearly in the boy's lap, but he didn't want to move. If anything, Michael wanted to be closer. This was the opposite of what he said he would do.

It took another ten minutes for either boy to make any movement again. "Mikey, c'mon. I have something I want to show you," Luke whispered into the tired boy's ear.

Michael thought hazily that if it had to do with Luke he would have done anything in that moment. Michael nodded and Luke helped him stand, grabbing the boy's wrists to steady him as he swayed. Michael winced and drew his arms into his chest.

Luke's eyebrow's furrowed and Michael wanted to smooth out the crease lines. "What's wrong?" Luke asked with a tender voice.

Fear pumped through his veins in the place of blood. Luke couldn't find out, Michael couldn't let that happen. Luke wouldn't know about his dad or his mum, or what he does to himself alone at night when he's left t his own mind. Because Luke will try to help and Michael can't have the blonde getting hurt. After all it's an endless cycle, Michael should know he hasn't broken it since he started at eleven. Seven years, and the longest Michael's been clean is three days. It's poison, but Michael's hooked on it. It's how he copes.