Chapter Text
If there was one thing that Dee knew about his family, it was that they weren’t normal. Though the shared taste in metal, reckless mother who insisted on riding her motorcycle while pregnant, and stoner “uncle” Ches who basically lived with them certainly contributed to that impression, in Dee’s personal opinion, none of these things were unheard of or uncommon… to an extent.
No, the thing that convinced him his family was a little bit off-kilter was their summer sleeping schedule. It was an entire system set up for maximising concert-going and general fun, fine-tuned just for them. At least one of the four of them would go to a concert each night. The concert-goers would take a quick nap before eating dinner and heading out, those who stayed behind taking a two hour nap while waiting for their return. There was “second dinner” (usually reserved for concert-goers) and then 3-4 hours spent as a collective of night-owls practising music, or watching TV, or fucking around on the internet. By one or two in the morning everyone was in bed, and then the house was dead silent until nine thirty.
Dee knows it’s dead silent because he’s the only one who’s ever awake at four in the morning, and Dee is the only one who’s ever awake at four in the morning because it’s the only time that is guaranteed to not be interrupted by his tough-love mom, hyperactive little brother, or borderline maniacal father.
It’s when everything is perfectly still, trapped in the clear resin of four AM. Time moves like syrup.
The stars are so pretty, he thinks to himself as he stares out the window. Their shine is distorted by the rain on the window, the silver light from the moon washing over the bedroom in a perfect rectangle, running over the carpet and then up the bed, over Dee’s face. The quiet settles over him like a blanket, thick and heavy.
It’s melancholy. He hates it.
It’s the one thing he hates about staying up, about finally not being bothered by every person all at once. These types of nights leave him alone and lonely, with nothing to focus on other than his terrible, terrible mind. His thoughts are the only things that are louder than the silence, buzzing around his head like flies.
His little brother picking fights and always getting beaten to a pulp (and the time he stood up for him…).
His father’s scars that he thinks Dee and Heavy don’t know about.
His mom hiding flinches with her tough-girl act every time she’s startled.
Ches when he’s high, with red eyes and redder lips spouting bullshit about how this is “the healthiest unhealthy family ever”.
As much as he hates to admit it, Dee worries about them. All of them, even Uncle Ches. He worries about them so much he almost forgets about himself.
But Dee is hungry, always hungry, even though he can’t feel it anymore, it’s always there in the back of his mind. He tries to ignore how weird it is that Ches just gives him cigs without any questions, how fucked it is that he’s using the spiked bracelets he was given for his tenth birthday to keep bandages in place. The very same bracelets his father taught him how to defend himself with, how to prevent injury with, used to hide what he’d done to himself.
His wrists have a very noticable tan line from below his carpal bones to his mid forearm. The only time Dee lets them breathe is at night, nights like these, where he stares at his pink and white scars with mild disinterest. Come to think of it, he hasn’t cut in a while… There’s not a single unhealed wound on his skin.
He runs his fingers over the scars, tracing invisible patterns over the bumpy texture. He takes note of the way the fresher ones are still pink, the new skin slightly wrinkled where it stretched to stitch itself together. There are older ones too, thinner and fainter, pale lines that are surrounded by slightly darkened skin. And there’s not even a single scab, not a single rust-colored raised line decorating his arms.
It’s odd. He wonders if this is what he would look like if he ever stopped.
He hears Heavy get out of bed to go take his middle of the night (or in this case, four thirty in the morning) piss.
Dee rolls himself into his blanket and finally sleeps.
—-
“Dad, dad! Look!” Heavy jumps up and down excitedly, bouncing his long hair messy and tangled from the mosh pit. He’s waving a piece of black cloth before holding it out in front of him, revealing a shirt that is definitely too big for him.
Victoria laughs as she gets off her motorcycle, flipping down the kickstand with her foot and shutting off the light, leaving Glam, Dee, Heavy and herself illuminated only by the flickering porchlight.
“Gonna be honest, I never pegged him to be a sludge or doom metal type kid, but he really loved the opening band!” She ruffles Heavy’s hair, frowning when her fingers get tangled. Heavy makes a sound of protest, trying to tear her hands off his head while still holding the shirt.
“What was the opening band?” Dee sounds disinterested as usual, but Heavy still thinks he hears a bit of excitement in his voice, maybe even pride for Heavy breaking away from his typical subgenre. The thought almost makes him smile. Imagine him, Heavy, making his older brother proud!
“Tombs!” Heavy practically shouts, waving around his shirt again and accidentally tearing his hair free from his mother’s grasp. He knows he’s being “immature” as he hops around with a massive grin on his face, but he really can’t be bothered to care right now.
“Right, Glam, he’s on a bit of a sugar rush right now. I think we should get some meat and vegetables into him, or maybe some tea.”
“I made some beef stroganoff, and there’s broccoli still roasting in the oven. You and Heavy can put it together once it’s done, I’ve already had my meal and Dee ate at the Black Mass concert.”
“Sounds perfect!”
The two continue to talk, walking back through the front door. The porchlight stabilises for a bit, and Heavy notices something on Dee’s face in the soft yellow light.
“Whazzat?” He asks, pointing to his cheek.
“What’s what?” Dee counters, arching an eyebrow.
“The stuff on your face.” Heavy shoves some smarties into his mouth, crunching on them before looking up quizzically, staring at the greyish streaks under his eyes. “Were you crying?”
Dee frowns, mouth drawn into a thin line. “Not so loud, dumbass,” he hisses, “Mom and Dad are right there.”
“So you were crying.”
“I never said that.”
“Your hair’s kinda messed up…” Heavy gasps as he notices the shitty makeup job covering Dee’s left eye, his typical black eyeshadow layered over it to try and look less suspicious. It might’ve tricked someone else, but Heavy knew how to hide a black eye, he knew what someone would look like after a bit of a fight. He also knew that Dee only had one type of foundation, a four year-old powder that had clearly not withstood the test of time. “Dee, did you get in a fight?”
“No!” His older brother clenches his fists. “Maybe! It’s none of your business anyways, brat.”
“ ‘M not a brat.” Heavy huffs. “I was jus’ checkimf.”
“Don’t talk when you’re eating.”
Heavy glares at him for a moment or two before Glam and Vicky notice that neither of them are inside yet and start yelling about “catching a cold” and “it’s getting dark”.
Dee tosses a look over his shoulder when he walks inside, a look that screams “you tell them about this and you are dead ”.
The deal is sealed when Heavy feels another roll of smarties pressed into his hands.
—-
Dee is able to keep up his aloof attitude until his parents and brother start watching a movie. He takes the chance to mumble some excuse about being tired (which is not untrue) before stumbling up the stairs. He passes by the guest room, sometimes called the Ches room, glancing through the door to see Uncle Ches passed the fuck out, and a pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. Dee snatches a couple with masterful stealth, letting the slightest puff of a sigh escape him when he reaches the end of the hall and closes the door to his own room. His stomach aches with hunger, but he shoves the feeling to his side, convincing himself that the two smokes are equivalent to his much needed three meals a day.
He tries to tell himself that he hates beef stroganoff. That he doesn’t care about the flash of hurt in his fathers eyes when he said he already ate. He’s a teenager, dammit, he shouldn’t care about that type of shit!
He checks his phone. Midnight. The moon peeks through fuzzy, not-fully-formed clouds, and when he opens his window, he’s greeted by the muffled sounds of dubstep a couple houses over. Cars move swiftly across the street, the glowing lights blinding him when he stares.
For a brief moment, he’s overcome with a crushing need to eat, and he knows it’s gonna be one of those rooftop smoking nights. Some cigarettes and his phone to distract him from the events earlier in the day. Maybe he’ll pull out a razor later if it’s not enough, but right now, the sting of cigarette butts on his ankles is fine, untied shoes gripping onto the gritty roof.
The pads of his fingers brush against the rough tiles, a half-hearted attempt to keep himself balanced as he lights up for the second time that night, reaching back to let the lighter clatter on his windowsill. He can hear his family on the first floor, laughing loudly. Maybe they’re watching a comedy special.
It doesn’t hurt his feelings. It doesn’t. It doesn’t make him feel like they abandoned him, because he’s the one who didn’t want to stick around and watch a show.
The air is still for a moment, warm and silent, and for that moment, he’s the only person in the world.
Dee breathes out, and watches the smoke spiral up…
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Dee doesn’t come back inside until three. No one checked in on him when they climbed up the stairs at one, passing by the door without so much as a “goodnight!”. He climbs over the windowsill, perching on his nightstand, and closes the window, smiling when his cold face is greeted by the warm air inside. He rubs his hands together before hugging them against himself in an effort to warm up again, walking towards his dresser. He stops at the mirror.
Heavy was right. He really didn’t do a great job with the makeup at all. It’s a miracle his parents didn’t notice the grey tracks from his eyes to his jaw, or the cakey foundation that had accidentally covered not just his black eye, but his freckles as well. He grabbed a tissue and wet it with what few drops were left in a glass on his desk, scrubbing at his face. It didn’t come off all the way, and rubbing at the black eye didn’t feel fantastic, but with only a few swipes he could already tell how dark the ring of bruised flesh had gotten.
The marks reminded Dee so much of him.
It was fine, he was fine! If nothing else, he had a lot less to take care of than the poor fucker who decided to mess with him and his 1.5 inch spikes. Had he groped Dee for even a moment more he probably would’ve ended up in the hospital.
In the hospital, which Dee was supposed to go to, wanted to go to so many nights ago, and yet didn’t because he was too afraid of him.
That guy’s hands were so much like his. Rough, cold, uncaring. Taking, taking, taking. He had grabbed Dee just like that, whispered in his ear just like that, moved up against his back just like that. The only difference was that he had done so in the school gym lockers, after practice, instead of in a crowded concert at the edges of a mosh pit.
It wasn’t until he felt tiny drops of warm blood beading against his fingertips that Dee realised how tight he’d been clenching his fists. His reflection looked scared. Not angry, not intimidating. Just… scared. Eyes blown wide open and watering, teeth bared, his brow furrowed. His makeup had been smudged all over in his attempt to get it off, and his hair was still the out-of-place frizzy mess Heavy pointed it out to be.
Without thinking, he tore off his spiked bracelets and bandages, exposing the barely scabbed-over wounds from earlier that day. They were an ugly, angry red, thinner than all the scars and overlapping, looking exactly like the product of a frantic urge in the stall of a public bathroom.
He’s pretty sure that before this night, it had been two weeks since he last cut.
He was hyperventilating. It was hurting his chest.
Time seemed to move in flashes after that, one moment spent staring at himself in the mirror, the next having him on his knees and choking on silent sobs, the next in which he noticed how much he was bleeding, how much his wrists and thighs hurt. It’s been seconds. It’s been hours. Through his tears he reads the clock. 4:30 AM. He leans back, propping himself up against the side of his bed and letting his wrists rest facing up over his knees, tucked up against his chest. Some of the cuts gently pulse out dark blood. He feels the sickeningly thick liquid roll down the side of his arms, dripping onto his jeans.
A strangled sob forces its way out of his throat.
“Dee?!”
—-
No no no no no. No. No. This was not happening.
But it was.
Heavy stared, completely frozen in the doorway. The room was a bloodbath, his brother in the centre.
Well, “bloodbath” might be a bit dramatic, but there was still so much.
Was Dee dying?
“Dee?!” He can’t help himself from whisper-shouting, and he breaks free from his stance to step into the room.
Dee looks up from where he’s sitting, face twisted into the painful grimace of a sob that quickly morphed into a frown. His makeup is smeared, some of it trailing down his face in tears of salt and eyeshadow, the badly applied foundation taking on a greyish tint where it had been rubbed and mixed with it.
“Get. The fuck. Out.” Dee snarled, trying to keep his voice down. “You don’t need to see this.”
The sight twisted Heavy’s chest, an unrecognisable flood of emotions turning into a lump in his throat. It only worsened when he moved his eyes from Dee’s face to his wrists, blood just as smeared as the makeup, staining his white shirt and darkening his black jeans. The skin was marred, and under all the blood it almost looked mutilated. Old bandages had been tossed to the side, accompanied by the bracelets, the lovely leather bracelets with spikes that Heavy had helped pick out.
“I’m getting dad.” He breathes out, preparing to step out of the room. He’s the only one Heavy knows with similar scars. Probably the only one who would know what to do in this situation.
“No.” Dee rushes to his feet, and sways. Heavy steps forward, ready to catch him, but when Dee’s legs buckle, he grabs his bed frame for support instead, breathing heavily. “No. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, if you tell anyone I’ll… I’ll…”
Heavy doesn’t bite back with a smug “you’ll what?”, instead opting to take another step forward. As he does, a glint of metal catches his eyes. There’s a razor in Dee’s hand.
There’s a razor. In Dee’s hand. Something that Heavy knows isn’t rust stains the edges.
Heavy’s not an idiot. He knows what his older brother has just done. But he’s kind of panicking, to be entirely honest. This isn’t exactly how he thought his night would be going.
“I’ll get Uncle Ches then.” He whispers, darting off before Dee can grab him, hearing an aborted noise of protest behind him. He slips past the door and into Uncle Ches’ room. If anyone would know what to do in unconventional situations like this, it would be Uncle Ches. He knew eeeeverything that mom and dad wouldn’t talk about. Surely, he knew a thing or two about bandaging up wounds. And whatever the fuck was going on with Dee.
Heavy slowly pads across the carpet, grimacing when he steps on a crunchy bit, not even wanting to think about the unknown dried substance there. He approaches the side of the bed Uncle Ches is sleeping in quietly, standing over the sleeping man before reaching out to tap his shoulder.
“Uncle?” He whispers as quiet-loud as he can. “Uncle Ches?”
There’s a faint grumble, but no definitive response. Heavy tries again, giving him a solid shake this time. “Uncle Ches?”
“Wha-uh?” He snorts, blinking himself awake. Heavy watches as he rubs his eyes and moves to prop himself up on his elbow. “Wha’s up kiddo?” He slurs, tongue thick with sleep.
“Dee. It’s an emergency.” Heavy whispers.
“Get your parents.” Ches responds with a wave of his hand. Heavy shakes his head.
“Dee won’t let me.” He grabs at Uncle Ches’ already raised hand, trying to tug him out of bed. “Please? I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. But if it’s so urgent, then this is definitely something you should be bringing to your parents.” Ches swings his legs out of bed, standing and letting Heavy pull him out of the room and down the hall. “Would you mind actually telling me what’s going… on…”
He trails off, eyes widening when he enters the room. Heavy closes the door behind them and watches him take the scene in, though this time Dee is pacing and pulling at his hair instead of sitting against the bed. “Oh fuck.” Ches mutters under his breath.
“I don’t need you here. I already told Heavy to leave me the fuck alone.” Dee stops pacing, looking straight into Ches’ eyes, glowering. “Get out. Now.”
“Hey, hey, hey, kid,” Ches puts his hands up like Dee’s pointing a gun or something. “Don’t worry, I’m just tryna help. Would you mind explaining what the hell happened?”
“Yes, I would mind, actually.” His voice is high-strung, and it sounds like he’s about to snap and start yelling or breaking things. Like Glam, but less insane. “So please do me a massive favour and leave.”
“I’ve dealt with this shit before, Dee, okay? I can help, even if it’s just with getting out the bloodstains and bandaging you up right.” Ches looks over his shoulder, a worried expression on his face when he sees Heavy on the verge of tears, tucked just behind the doorway. “Hey, Heavy, how about you step out for a moment? Let me and Dee have a little chat?”
Heavy nods, glancing between the two. It looks almost like a showdown, Dee on one side of the room, still gripping his razor, and Ches on the other, hands up while having backed himself up against the wall.
“Sorry Dee.” He mumbles before quickly opening and closing the door. He doesn’t let himself cry until he’s back in his room.
—-
“I don’t need your help.” Dee snarls the moment his brother leaves.
“And I don’t give a shit. You’re bleeding, refusing to get help from your parents, and I’m the only other person in this house who’s old enough to have some semblance of responsibility.” Ches crosses his arms in front of him.
“You passed out with half an edible in your hand. I don't think that's the picture of responsibility.”
“And you’re saying that’s worse than this? I wasn’t born yesterday man, this type of shit doesn’t just happen for no goddamn reason.”
“Well maybe it did! Maybe I just fucking snapped out of the blue!”
“No, you didn’t.” Ches says it with such certainty that Dee knows he can’t get out of this one. His stomach sinks when Ches continues. “Look, I’ve given you at least three packs worth of cigs in the past couple weeks, and for the record, I know you’ve been stealing more. I eat dinner with your parents and brother more often than you do. And you’re currently sporting a very badly hidden black eye, not to mention the more urgent situation at hand.” He sighs and crosses the room, flopping onto Dee’s bed. Dee glares at him, still standing.
“How about you just tell me what’s going on, I help fix you up, and we can work on the root of the issue later.” He puts his hands up when Dee starts to protest, saying, “I’m not making you quit anything. I just want some transparency here.”
“Fuckin- no!” Dee scratches at his arms, ignoring how Ches grimaces at the sight. “I already said I don’t need your help. I don’t need help, period.” His voice pitches up an octave or two as his hands move up to grip his shoulders, crossing over his chest as he folds inwards as though to protect his heart. “I don’t need it. I don’t. I’m fine. Nothing happened!”
His head whips up when he feels Ches reach over and slowly peel his fingers off his shoulders, gently but firmly grabbing Dee’s hands.
“Something did happen. Something bad happened to you, and you’re hurting. You need to tell somebody.” He says, and he says it so kindly that Dee can’t help but start crying again, entire body shaking with each sob when he falls into Ches’ arms, leaning all of his weight against the him. Dee doesn’t speak for a while, crying into Ches’ shoulder while he sways the two of them side to side, murmuring indecipherable words of comfort under his breath and patting his back. Gasps for air turn to little hiccups before he finally starts talking.
“I-” He swallows thickly. “At the concert today. I was at the back end of the mosh pit edges, and this guy. This guy comes up behind me and-” A high pitched whine leaks out. Ches rubs his back again, and Dee somehow finds the strength to continue. “It was just like how it started last time, so I punched him, and he punched me back but it was fine. I’m pretty sure I won the fight.” He can’t help but chuckle a bit at that. “But it was just so similar, and I couldn’t-”
Another shaky sob cuts him off mid sentence, and he presses his face into his uncle’s chest like a little kid who’s scared of the dark. “It was just like last time,” is all he can manage. A firm hand cradles the base of his skull.
“What happened last time?” Ches asks gently.
He grabbed me. He touched me. He hurt me.
“Re -hic- member when Heavy kept getting into fights with that blond kid?” Dee asks quietly. He feels Uncle Ches nod above him.
“The weird one who wore jorts, a little older than you?”
“Yeah.” Dee smiles, but it turns into a grimace. “Heavy came home with his first black eye, and it was from that kid, and I was just a pissed-off brother I guess. I shit-talked him in the lockers the day after, and we shoved each other around a bit, and I thought that was the end of the whole thing but… when everyone left he locked the fucking doors and he snuck up behind -hic- me…”
He shakes his head, hugging Ches tighter. “It hurt.” He chokes out before sobs wracked his body again, and he suddenly can’t seem to get enough air. “He- he…”
“No, nonono… Shit, kid.” Ches starts swaying again, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say any more if you don’t want to.”
“It fuckin’ hurt and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to-o.” Dee’s breath hitches and he can’t bring himself to care about how he’s getting blood and makeup and tears all over Uncle Ches’ shirt. “And then I sto-opped eating, and started cutting and I didn’t want it, Ches. I’m not fucking lying, I didn’t want it.”
Ches just holds him, letting Dee cry his heart out.
I'm not lying, I'm not lying, please please believe me.
Time slows, thickening around them, stretching out each sob to feel like it lasts for hours.
After a while, he starts to talk.
“You know about your dad’s scars, right?”
Dee nods into his chest, still shaking with each gasping breath.
“But he never told you how he got them. Fair enough, you know, it’s his story to tell. But back when he was getting hurt, when we were like, I dunno, sixteen, seventeen. A little older than you. I was the one who cleaned the wounds because he never bothered to do it himself. There were probably parts of his skin that remained active wounds for months because of how often they were reopened, and-” Dee cries harder because, fuck, man, his dad too? “Shit I just made things worse, didn’t I?”
“No-o. It’s okay, keep going.” Dee sniffs. He can’t see his uncle's face, but he can still imagine his comforting lazy smile.
“Okay, well… basically your dad got himself in a ton of shit. Not just him, though. I’ve known a lot of people who get deep into this type of stuff, sometimes to cope with things like yours. But they always end up in holes they can’t crawl out of.” Ches sighs, reaching over Dee’s head to grab at the tissues on the nightstand. He moves Dee away from him a bit, gently wiping away the tears as he continues. “I don’t want to see you like that. Your dad almost ended up like that, hell, I did too. You’re pushing things too close to the edge, Dee. You can’t keep doing shit like this.”
“But I need it.”
“There are other ways to fix internal pain. Better ways, more permanent ways.” The tissue comes away grey, and it’s thrown in the general direction of the trash can across the room. “How about you give me that razor, alright?”
It’s not until then that Dee notices that he’s still holding the object, pressed flat against his palm in his clenched fist. It’s a miracle it hasn’t cut him yet.
He fully lets go of Ches then, picking the blade off of his left hand, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. And then something bad happens.
Ches sees it as him giving it up, reaching forward. As far as Dee is concerned, this action is out of the blue, and he yanks his hand away a split second too late, because Ches’ fingers are already around it…
Dee watches in horror as his uncle hisses in pain, pulling his bleeding fingers towards himself. Red is already bubbling out, and there’s so much blood. So much blood.
He just cut his uncle.
He gets off the bed, tears pricking behind his eyes again.
“I’m sorry.” He cries, turning and high tailing it out of the room.