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Sylvain shakes as he drags the blade across his forearm. Someone else’s voice whimpers through his lips, sharply inhaling at the familiar sting on his skin. His hands are vibrating and functioning on auto-pilot—muscle memory alone. The patterns of parallel tracks on each of his arms serve to heighten his guilt, instead of alleviating his panic like he had hoped. But if this does accomplish anything at all for him, it certainly numbs his mind.
He watches closely, curiously, as the scarlet pattern stains his skin, marred with raised, white slip-ups of the past. He actively avoids showing these parts of himself to his various lovers, excusing the sleeves he keeps dutifully rolled over his arms— awfully cold in here, honestly, I should keep my shirt on, anyway —Goddess forbid somebody gets the wrong impression about the Gautier boy. He’s torn himself flesh from bone, raw, biting skin meeting cold air to send a burn that resonates through his body, digs into his very soul. He carves the symbol of his family crest into his arm. All he is—a status and a body to use.
His heart beats faster, harder, with each passing minute and each slice of the blade through his severed, thin layers of flesh. It only takes the slightest swipe before the cut spreads open, wider than he always expects, bloodier than he would hope for. It gets addicting, to feel a physical sensation other than orgasm. Sex gets old, the same routine becoming autonomous: courting, leading, fucking, leaving. He finds that, if he spreads the injury open with his fingers, the blood rushes to the surface faster, rendering him a violent canvas of suffering.
The clicking of his bedroom door’s lock shocks him out of his daze and he drops his blade, clattering to the floor as his throat chokes up.
“I know what you’re doing in there,” comes the all-too familiar angry voice of his half-sibling, Miklan. “You fucking pervert. Can’t go a day without getting your fill, huh?”
He shivers. If Miklan comes in—he thinks he’s doing something completely different, but Sylvain was planning on that later, right now he has to—he has to hide his arms.
Sylvain can hear Miklan reaching into his pocket, because the key he keeps to his bedroom jingles. His mouth falls open in panic, scrambling to kick his blood-stained knife under the bed and roughly pulling his sleeves over his arms. Fuck, the motion scrapes against the open wounds and he can feel the warmth of his blood trickling down his arms, pooling around his wrists. He sets his arms upright, hands under his chin inconspicuously, hoping gravity will do its job.
“C-Come in,” he stutters weakly, cursing himself for sounding so pathetic, always so overpowered by his brother. It’s why he’s such an easy target; he only lets himself suffer for the sake of venting his brother’s frustration.
Miklan all but breaks down the door after turning his key in the lock. Sylvain knows that he would have entered by his own volition, whether or not he gave him the go-ahead. But for his own sake, it feels better to think he has even a semblance of control.
He immediately scoffs at him, and it runs straight through Sylvain like a winter’s chill. “Finally put your dick away, did you? I could hear you desperately trying to hide what you were doing, whore.”
His hands shake where they rest underneath his chin. “I… wasn’t doing that, perv,” he tries to bite back with an ounce of venom, but his voice comes out strained and pathetic, probably only contradicting his point. Anyone else would assume the same of him. “Why do you think about my sex life so much, anyway? It’s weird.”
Snorting, Miklan grabs him by the hair and forces his head upright, shooting him with a glare that pierces deeper than his blade. “Because you’re a sick fucking man-slut who keeps his dick wet so he doesn’t have to deal with his duties. Isn’t that right? You’re a goddamned pathetic excuse for an heir.”
Sylvain exhales and winces quietly, flinching away from Miklan’s touch, which only pulls at his hair even more. “You know I never wanted to have a crest, I—if it were up to me—”
“Quiet!” Miklan growls at him, striking his cheek with the back of his coarse, scarred hand. Sylvain refuses to make a noise, only breathing deeply and staring at the wall. “I don’t care what you want. You’re a selfish fucking liar. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you lied all the way up to receiving your crest, too.” He spits at him—on him, rather, as it splatters across his flushed cheek. “You don’t care about anyone, not even your own family. Fuck, if you could, you’d abandon everyone to go die in a ditch somewhere, wouldn’t you?”
He closes his eyes without a response. It’s true. Miklan knows too much, far too much about the way that he thinks—if he could, he’d jump ship, go far away to some unknown land and slit his throat or starve himself to death. His eyelashes flutter where they attempt to hold back the liquid welling in his ducts.
Miklan snarls. “You’re not seriously crying again,” he laughs out, turning Sylvain’s face towards him once again. “Can’t believe you’re still this sensitive after all this time. Aren’t you tired of it?”
Sylvain sniffs, huffing out an empty laugh. “You don’t think I am? Do you think I do this on purpose?” He lifts a hand to wipe at his eye, his sleeve drooping down his arm an inch when he does so. “I wish I could be a numb piece of shit like you are, but—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before he’s hit again.
Then, Miklan pulls him by his forearm, which burns, as his fingers grind against the sensitive injured flesh. “Shit,” Sylvain winces, and he immediately regrets it. Judging by the satisfied look on Miklan’s face, that is exactly the reaction he wanted out of him.
“What did your dumbass do?” he cackles, and Sylvain doesn’t detect an ounce of concern or even sympathy in his tone. Typical. “I knew you hated yourself, but this is just pathetic.”
Sylvain doesn’t flinch—hardly blinks, even. “Shut up,” he spits, tearing his arm away from Miklan (and, in turn, tearing open more of his fresh cuts). “You want me to die, don’t you? Then let me at least try to do something about it.” He wishes his voice sounded more aggravated, instead of honest.
Miklan snickers. “I bet you’d somehow fuck up killing yourself, anyway.”
He huffs and shoves his sleeved arms under the blanket, pulling it over himself and rolling over. “Just leave, won’t you? Leave me alone for a minute at least. God.”
He doesn’t expect anything from his brother. Anything, besides more torture, at the very least. But he doesn’t get a response, so he turns his head.
Miklan is staring off. “Whatever,” he growls, punctuating his statement with the stomping of his footsteps towards the door. “I came in here to say that your father wants to see you.” His voice sounds disinterested and malicious, but not in the same way it usually is. It’s not directed at Sylvain, this time. “Don’t keep him waiting too long, lest he decides to cast you aside like he did me and breed another fucking kid.”
With that, he storms off and slams his door shut.
A little puzzled, he blinks at the wall, not moving for a solid minute. He’s not entirely sure why Miklan spared him, this time. Perhaps redirecting his anger is the right move to get him to leave, then—but that usually proves unsuccessful when Sylvain attempts it. Maybe Miklan was just bored, or Sylvain had already beat himself up enough that he decided his job was done for him.
Sylvain’s eyes fall to his bedsheets, where his blood has soaked into through his sleeves. He sighs, dejected. He’ll have to wash it thoroughly himself—can’t risk a maid seeing it and raising questions, or worse, bringing it up to his father. The thought seems sort of funny to him, now. Really, what would his father do about his suicidal ideation? Restrain him?
He shakes his head and laughs as he covers the sheet with his blanket, pulling off his shirt. The wounds are still open, but the blood has dried. They look wet and open, disturbingly so. He cringes slightly; now that the moment has passed, he feels an almost post-nut clarity at what he’s done.
Always a disappointment, he shuffles his feet towards his door, grabbing a towel. If he scrubs his arms clean enough, maybe it’ll suffice for now, to supplement him with something to do besides share a bed with strangers. Besides, his bed is now in no shape to be used with girls. He’ll have to think of discreet settings to do their deeds, then.
His fingernails brush over his raw arms, causing him to shudder. He watches his reflection bite its lip until it tears the blistering flesh clean off. His gaze seems soulless, and he thinks, in that moment, he oddly resembles his brother, just this once.