Alpha and Omega (Cai)

Deimos let Cailean pull his head into his lap, not having enough energy to really fight him off. "I had toast." He told Cailean simply. He blinked at him wearily. Then blinked again. His brain processed the signs, but it took him a moment before his eyes narrowed. "How the fuck-" He began. He tried to remember if Rosie had said how long Cai had been practicing, but thinking of her just made his chest ache. He shot up at the mention of giving him a bath, feeling like he was blushing. "I can shower myself!" He told Cailean a bit too firmly.

He turned in time to see Cailean mentioning stew. "Uh... yeah. Whatever." He said, shifting awkwardly. He ran a hand through his hair, holding back a grimace at the greasiness of it. He was a bit more functional today, he supposed he could get himself into the shower. "Put lots of meat in it." He muttered, shuffling his way into the bathroom.

Deimos was already in the shower when he realized he had forgotten to grab a change of clothes. It didn't really matter, the two of them had roomed together, it wasn't like there was anything the other hadn't seen. He had just finished washing his hair (It's longer than I thought, He had mused.) when he opened his eyes and saw Cailean's face. He froze, once again only his mind acknowledging the signing. When the hell did Cai learn to sign one-handed? Exactly how long had Cai been studying it? And why did he never bother to tell him about it??? He let out a belated sigh and a thanks, not even knowing if Cailean was still in the bathroom, and finished washing up. Taking a shower helped his mood a little, at the very least his stomach and mind were finally in agreement he needed food. He pulled on clothes and ruffled his hair rather than brushing it, then went out.

Immediately his nose smelled the stew and his stomach grumbled. He shuffled into the kitchen, grabbing a bowl and scooping the stew until he wouldn't be able to walk and carry the bowl without spilling. As he was leaving the kitchen, he noticed the bottle of vodka was now empty and near the trash can. "That wasn't cheap you know." He grumbled, eying Cailean. Still, he left it at that and sat on the opposite end of the couch as Cailean. "Thanks." He muttered. He took a bite. Well, another thing to hate about Cai. He could cook. Really well. Not that Deimos would be the one to ever tell him that.

Deimos winced at the flick to the forehead, but otherwise didn't move much. He knew Cailean was right, but he really didn't want to admit to himself anything coming out the werewolf's mouth was right. At this rate, he'd have trouble paying rent for next month. He sighed, he supposed if he could force himself out of bed and into the shower today, he could force himself to work tomorrow. His manager had sent him the schedule for the next week and his punishment for missing so much was his hours being cut severely, so he'd have to find some way to make it up to the manager before the end of month. However, after nearly three weeks of nonstop drinking, the thought of being sober for even just the five hour shift he had the next day made him feel a bit queasy.

He lowered the bowl to his lap, realizing he'd been spacing out, and looked up to see Cai at the very least half asleep. Taking care of him must be tiring. He felt a bit bad about it, but it wasn't like he had asked Cai to take care of him. He would've been fine if Cai had stayed in Antarctica! He huffed, despite his own stubbornness he was glad Cailean was taking care of things. He set the bowl on the floor next to him, not feeling that hungry suddenly. He laid down, taking up the cushions Cailean hadn't, but couldn't sleep, so he just stared at the ceiling, as he had been doing before Cai came in.

Deimos blinked at Cailean's question. "Uh... nothing really." He began, sitting up as Cai laid in his lap, absent-mindedly playing with the other man's hair. Fourteen-year-old him would've been over the moon for a chance like this, now all he had was contempt. Well, mostly contempt. Something about him being around for nearly ten years had caused him to form a soft spot in Deimos' heart. More things he'd never admit to Cailean.

"It just... must be hard taking care of me." He mused aloud.

Deimos frowned at Cailean. How dare he. How dare he say he was hard to take care of, he wasn't supposed to agree. On top of that, he still didn't know how he felt about being called a mutt by Cai. He knew that he never said it with malice or teasing, not like the other people that called him that, but did Cai really find it acceptable to call him something derogatory? He narrowed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling again. And what did he mean by as alive and well as he could be?

His mind reminded him that not even a month ago, he was perfectly fine, well on his way to recovery from both alcoholism and the more severe symptoms of his bpd. He basically had gone from "depression who?" to hello darkness my old friend... He sighed, looking back down at Cai. "Yeah, you're probably right." He said simply, not necessarily explaining what he agreed with. "I'll eat more later. My stomach's upset." He lied.

((Warnings: self harm))

"You don't have to..." Deimos began, but he spoke too quietly and too belatedly for even Cailean to be able to hear him. He remained still for a bit, staring at the ceiling and letting himself get overwhelmed by the depression that had been lingering. He could just go talk to Rosie, but she was probably mad at him and didn't want to talk. She probably didn't even care. And Cai seemed to care but he also called Deimos a burden. Again with being called a burden. How many people he cared about would say that about him? His adopted parents had already said it once, when they thought he couldn't see him. The pain in his chest was unbearable. If only he had a gun, it would be a lot easier to end it all.

But would he even be able to pull the trigger? A sharp pain on his arm made him look down, and he realized he had been clenching onto it tight enough his nails had started digging into his skin. He sighed, getting up stiffly and shuffling into the kitchen, setting the bowl of stew on the counter. His eyes lingered on a knife in the sink. He really wasn't sure exactly when he started resorting to cutting. He did it a little as a teen but found it stupid and so stuck alcohol to slowly destroy him while easing the pain and hurt. He picked up the knife numbly, holding just too tight his hand stung. He wanted to feel something. He watched as the blood dripped into the sink. He realized belatedly he'd been dissociating, probably for a while now, but didn't really feel like coming back down yet. He leaned against the counter, staring at his wrist as the cut on his palm stopped bleeding. There was an easy method to end it all, slicing his wrist open. If he cut deep enough, he wouldn't be able to stop bleeding before it was too late. He hovered the knife over his wrist, but couldn't bring himself to actually cut too deep.
How long would he be a burden to others? cut
What would he do without Rosie? cut
Why did he do that Rosie? cut
He sank down to the floor, feeling like he was on the verge of tears. He'd swear he had cried more in the last year than the last 23 combined. He buried his face, a hand clenching the knife again, though this time it was enough to hurt but not enough to bleed. How could he have gone from doing so great to spiraling so fast? Because of that guy? Rosie had gone from perfect angel to the most hated person just because of a guy? The worst part was that he knew, despite feeling hatred towards her, his true feelings, sans bpd, still loved her to death.