Work Text:
Clayton remembered the first time, twenty-seven years ago. He was fifteen, and he’d been feeling just...awful as of late. He couldn’t sleep, could hardly bring himself to eat, and just felt… empty, for what felt like no reason at all. How he came to the decision was very fuzzy, but he found himself grabbing a small knife from the kitchen and slicing into his forearm.
The cut wasn’t large or deep; just small and thin, hardly the size of his pinky finger. But it was relieving, cathartic, and he felt so much better. It wasn’t like his problems were immediately gone, per se, but it was a small, almost instantaneous relief, almost similar to a high.
Clayton loved that feeling. So he kept at it.
It wasn’t a regular habit, not at first. The timing between his cuts were sporadic; Clayton could go without cutting for months, or do it twice in a single week. Most of the cuts healed without much issue, but a few of them scarred, leaving pale white lines on his arms near his wrists, which were hardly even noticeable at all unless you looked really hard, to the point of near squinting.
But sometime a few years before he met Temple, it became a comfort. He was still trying to find out what he wanted to do in life, he’d just moved out of the apartment where he had been living with his ex, after finally breaking off the abusive and toxic cycle that he used to call a relationship, and his mental health was starting to take a mega nosedive. Luckily he didn’t turn to the bottle like others would (though he could hold his booze pretty well, until he couldn’t), but he turned to something else instead.
The blade.
He kept razors hidden in his clothes drawer, under all his T-shirts and jeans. Hoodies became his preferred clothing of choice, and nobody batted an eye; after all, they were in the more colder parts of California. He kept on cutting, more and more, more faint scars appearing on his arms, and eventually the inside of his thighs. He was doing well at keeping it hidden.
Especially from Temple.
Clayton loathed to think about what would happen if Temple found out about the cutting. Sure, his partner was over a century older than him, and probably wouldn’t be too upset, but still fears lingered in Clayton’s mind; would Temple think badly of him? Leave him behind? He didn’t know.
And he was scared to find out.
So the cuts stayed hidden away, under a layer of thick hoodies and baggy jeans.