Chapter Text
The clock ticked, and the lights were so loud that he could hear them. His veins itched, begging for the shape bite of the blade. The drag of the fabric on his latest mark will have to do.
“Your Serum Ferritin is twenty-five.” The doctor said, his glasses hanging low on his nose.
“And that’s bad?” Aerion’s father, jail keeper, more likely, grumbled.
“Well, yes. That's most likely the reason for the boy’s fainting spells.” The clicking of the mouse echoed in the hospital room. “Sir,” the man’s brown eyes met Maekar’s blue ones. “He’s anemic.”
“And what can we do about that?” If he wants to fix me, he can’t. He pressed his eyes shut, the flashbacks on his heels. He swore he would have walked here if he could, but his father’s pull was too strong.
Behind his eyes was shattered glass, a hole in his mind burned straight through to his fake calm. His hands began to shake as he saw it: the bloodied mess in the place of his mother’s face. He bit the inside of his cheek; the welt that grew would match the others.
“He’ll have to take iron pills for the rest of his life.” Maekar shifted in his seat, white-silver brows knitting in a look that said ‘what have you done, you insolent fool’. It offended him that he was sick, that he was…Damaged. But how could he not be, after all? How could his boy, his boy, be broken? Always about him. The broker, the conglomerate scammer, the Targaryen.
A large hand gripped the back of Aerion’s shoulder, cueing him to stand. His legs were jelly, his stomach reeling. He knew, he just didnt want to say it. All the blood-soaked laundry, the erratic mood swings. They were typical of a teen, he might have told himself. But he couldn't deny it any longer. He was damaged. At his own hand.
“Move, boy.” The gruffness of the tone latched on his skin like mold. He had to get out of there. His mind was splitting as they walked down the corridor. Maekar guided him, tugging on his crewneck, which he wore in warm weather. He knew why, he just didn’t care.
When the car came into view, Aerion scrambled to the side of it. Maekar’s grip hardened as he steered the teen into its black depths. He hated that car; many times they rebuilt that thing, he could still smell the blood in the cracks where they couldn’t clean it. Why did he have to keep such a thing?
He wasn’t going in there. Not like this. His back arched, twisting the opposite way.
“Don’t embarrass me, boy. Get in, now.” He whispered to him.
He broke loose. “I’m going to Lynoel’s, we have that project, remember?” If the excuse was related to school, he’d be more inclined to let him go. He put on the mask that he wore daily to hide and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home for dinner, I’ll Uber.”
The scowl softened some. “Fine, but tell Mr. Baratheon I’ll be needing that lighter back, it’s antique.”
Aerion nodded, then slowly backed away.
————-
The ring of the hardware store’s greeting bell set a shock down Aerion’s back. He’d never been to this particular one, this part of town even, but there all the same, weren’t they? He strolled through the arching doors; the place smelled of wet paint and exhaustion. His hands shook as he moved down the aisle. Keep it together. A voice inside his shriveled heart sang out in such high-pitched notes. Calm down, they’ll think you're stealing something.
His pale fingers, one of the only parts of him that weren’t marked, moved over the plumbing tools, paint brushes, and drill bits. The layout of this place was his own personal hell, not organized, unpredictable. His face began to heat as he paced. At this rate, he’d be lying on the floor gnawing off his scabs just to feel. His breath came out in thick pants, his knees bent and ninety-degree angles ready to give, ready to crash into the ugly spotted carpet, when he heard it. Faint thudding footsteps. He looked up.
“Finding everything alright?” A giant of a man, built like a house, stared at him with lagoon blue eyes. “I could help you—“
“Yes.” The word sputtered out of Aerion’s cold lips. “Could you tell me where the hand tool section is? This place is laid out like a labyrinth.”
There was a soft chuckle that graced the giant’s full lips, not mocking, nor threatening, just there. “Yeah, sorry about that, my old man Arlan likes rearranging every year. He calls it ‘feng shui.’ “ Massive hands curled into air quotes as a smile coiled on his beautiful face. He had to be about his age; boyish baby fat still clung to his solid yet commanding jaw. He stood at least a foot taller than him, broad shoulders with sun-warm skin even in near winter. He could feel the heat coming off him as he towered over him.
He swallowed thickly. Concentrate.
Aerion blinked, then nodding said, “So I’ll follow you?” His hands steadied, something in this man’s smooth, steady voice quieted the screams in his head. But he still needed it, oh god, he needed it.
He stepped tentatively as the giant blazed a path forward. He passed the electrical section, then the hardware section, the chains glinted in the fluorescent light, he suddenly wondered what it would be like to—
“Here we are.” The man announced with a smile. It was in the back of the store, cold and lonely like him; they dangled from a hook. He snatched it, the ten-pack would do, but it wouldn’t last long. The razors were light in his hand as he moved in a swift line to the checkout.
“Just this for ya?” The beep of the scanner made his heart hammer. “Doing a DIY project or somethin’ “ The employee was surprisingly clueless, but what did Aerion expect, the words ‘self mutilator’ stamped on his forehead?
“Something like that, yes.” He paid in cash, swiping the box that was his lifeline.
The man smiled, big and full of the lies of happiness. “Well, thanks for stopping at Tall’s. Hope to see you again sometime.” He winked.
He froze for a second, hand clenched as the man’s blue eyes searched his.
He exhaled loudly and turned on his heel.
He wouldnt see him again, he knew that. He never went to the same shop twice. Living in a big city like London had its perks after all.
“Doing a DIY project or somethin’ “ The words broke into his veins, they stung like glass as he made it to the side of the street, his loot stored in his backpack.
Yes, a project. That’s what this was. An adventure to carve out the part of him that still felt anything, anything at all.
The thud of pavement gyrated up his sore legs as he made his way to Lynoel’s flat.
The deer antler knocker echoed on the dark oak door. It was custom, designed by Robert Baratheon himself. He was the owner of the wealthiest construction company in the East. Theon Developments. And so happened to be a long term buisness partner of his father’s.The door creaked open to reveal the curly mess of black hair that belonged to one of his four sons, Lynoel. Lynoel wasn't like his father; he didn’t dream of schematics and skyscrapers. His head was almost always in a computer programming book.
His eyes look shocked. “Aerion, I didn’t—“
“Expect to see your project partner this soon?” Aerion half yelled past the door, then moved past it.”I need something back, or well, he does.” His backpack made it through the opening, just clearing the bulge in the center that housed his secret.
Lynoel pushed up his heavy-framed glasses up his angled nose. “Do you mean?” His eyes darted to his father, passed out in his leather chair, snoring like an ox. “I know where he keeps it. Stay there.”
The room, although smaller than his own estate, was lavish in golds and greens, modern styling slick with the touch of the stag. Animal pelts lined the couches, the wet bar glinted with glass bottles nearly dry of liquor. The marble island was stocked with fresh fruit, coffee grounds in metal tins, and maps, loads and loads of maps.
“He had one of his ‘ I stayed up and brainstormed nights’ last night. The place is a mess, " Mom says she’ll have his head when he wakes.” Lynoel huffed, trying to keep his voice down. “Here,” A cold, smooth metal hit his hand, and not the typical one, but the familiarity radiated down his palm, into his gut. His father’s flask held the image of a three-headed dragon in blood-red ink; the vessel itself was ornate silver.
At least he had a mom.
“Thanks,” He paused, stomach lurching at the mental sight of blood spread over a dashboard. “Tell them hi, okay? I know I’ve been scarce.” He hadn’t been scarce; he’d been gone. Ever since—
A hand gripped his shoulder. “Aerion, I know, it’s been…” He trailed off, dark green eyes tracing his dark circles. “But you needed time away, after…everything.”
He shrugged the hand off, dipping down as if to shield himself from a blow. But it had already struck. He stumbled away.
“Aerion!” A voice called, “I didn’t mean it that way.” His boots slapped the wet ground as he ran.
They used to be best friends. Before everything stopped when he slammed the brakes into oblivion.
He gasped, heart seizing as he turned the corner underneath Coarny Bridge. He had to do it, he had to. The voices wouldn't stop. Only the blade could give him calm, only it could soothe whatever was left of his mangled soul. He sought shelter under the large arch of the bridge, which was damp and cold and helpless.
Just what he needed.
He dug out his tool, hands shaking as they plunged into the rough fabric of his bag. Then, his heart sputtered like a broken message on a machine repeating things he couldn’t unsee.
He fell to his knees, out of sight of the common passerby, and rolled up his sleeve.
Soon the sharpness took the ache, soon his eyes rolled back in a complete and utter rush of endorphins. He bit his lip and slashed again, boldozing over a nearly healed scar.
It was enough for now. He pulled out his gaze and tape he always had with him and wrapped it around the wound. He couldn’t have it leaking onto his clothes, not when there are eyes on him.
He kicked the damp grass as it started to rain.
“Fuck it, I’ll walk home, it’s only five miles.”