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Frank woke to muted light filtering through his window and the sound of a light drizzle outside. The events of the previous night were still playing on loop in his head. His step father had called him for the first time probably ever and yelled at him. He was on his ass, screaming about how Frank was "a dirty fag" and "a whore" and he "deserved to die and burn in hell", just because he liked boys and not girls. Frank had been dealing with this abuse since he was about fifteen, but after he moved out for college, he thought it was over. He was wrong. His step dad went on for about ten minutes before Frank decided he wouldn't get a word in edge-wise and that he'd had enough and hung up.

He couldn't help but think about what this would make him do. And after he'd been so good. It had been two whole weeks. The cuts were finally fading, but alas, one can only take so much before their mind that was so carefully stitched back together comes apart at the seams. So, with the insults still fresh in his mind, he opened the little box in his desk drawer that he'd hoped he'd never see again; that, only fourteen days ago, he'd promised himself he'd never see again. But really, who keeps promises anymore?

With his step father's sneering voice playing over and over in his head, he snapped. The human mind is a very fragile thing, especially so after it has already been brought to its figurative knees. So Frank did it. He opened the box containing five shiny straight razors, an X-Acto blade, and a pocket knife. He picked up the X-Acto blade, figuring that if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

He spent about half an hour carving into his skin. Half an hour watching the blood drip from his arms. Half an hour letting the pain escape his mind and go into his cuts. It wasn't his fault he was like this. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was natural. So, why was his step father making it feel like Frank should be blamed for something that no one had caused to happen? That was another answer he didn't know to another question he didn't understand. He decided he'd leave it for later. Maybe for when he didn't need the medication anymore, or maybe for when he didn't need the therapist that gave it to him either.

And so, on that drizzly October morning, he did what any other person that had just been pushed back over the proverbial edge would do. He got up and took a shower, albeit a slightly difficult and painful one. After all, anyone who can shower normally with fifty or more fresh cuts up and down their arms and can also ignore the almost unbearable sting is very talented and should be presented with an award of some sort. Perhaps a fruit basket. Once Frank decided he was clean, or at least clean enough, and the blood from the re-opened cuts had drained away, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

He blow-dried his hair, deciding that just because he was a mess, that didn't mean he had to look like one, and dressed himself. Because it was the weekend, and he'd be home alone, he didn't see any point in trying to cover up his arms. He chose his favorite t-shirt, the soft, grey, cotton one with the big white bird on it that he'd gotten from some shop or other in town about a year ago. He figured maybe the warm, familiar material would help him cope with his little break down better. Halfway through pulling on a pair of black, loose-fitting sweatpants, his stomach growled, telling him that the single piece of toast and ten or twelve or twenty cups of milky tea he'd had the previous day hadn't been enough. 

Deciding to placate his dissatisfied digestive system, he ambled over into his small kitchen to fix himself a bowl of cereal and some more milky tea. While he let the kettle warm up, he opened the shades on his windows to let in what clouded over sunlight he could, and maybe the possibility of lowering his electric bill came into play as well. After the kettle heated and the tea bags were steeping, he began to fix his cereal. He got out a bowl and turned around to grab the milk. While he was reaching up into the cabinet for his favorite Frosted Cheerios, the paperboy arrived with the college newspaper. The familiar daily clang of his letter box filled the room, and the paper was dropped onto his kitchen table.

This happened every morning though, and Frank had no interest in watching it.  But, when he turned around, breakfast in hand, something on the outside of the paper, tucked into the elastic band caught his eye. Perhaps it was just a notice for Final Clubs, or a party, or a discount offer in the student shop. But, as he neared it, he saw it wasn't any of those things. There, on a neon green scrap of paper, was a message written in decidedly boy's handwriting, that read only two words.

"You're beautiful." it said, and then there was a small heart underneath it. But who would say such a thing? And who would mean it? As of yet, Frank's brain wasn't back to full function after what happened the previous night, and at the moment he couldn't believe anyone would find him attractive, much less something so drastic as beautiful. Although, the mystery writer's proper use of grammar and punctuation did put Frank's English-majoring mind at ease. At least his secret admirer knew the difference between "you're" and "your". Deciding to let the compliment sink in a little more, he sat himself down at the table and stared at the slip of paper. He ate in silence, contemplating who could've written it, completely forgetting about his precious milky tea.

-

Gerard wanted a job. His full ride paid for things like rent, bills, and books, but he needed some extra money. When ramen noodles become a delicacy, you know things are bad. So, when he set off to find employment, and the best he could find was being one of the campus paperboys, he took it. At least he wouldn't have to live off his younger brother anymore, and at least he wouldn't starve. He was underweight enough as it was, and didn't feel like making the cliché of the starving artist a reality in him.

On his first day, things were going fine. His route was that of the small neighborhood of compact student townhouses at the edge of campus. Lucky for Gerard, it was also where he and his younger brother Mikey happened to live. It was only two or three blocks of housing, so he would be done fairly quickly, and he didn't have to get up ungodly early, so it was perfect. The pay was decent enough to eat and maybe rent a movie on the weekends, so Gerard was in no way complaining.

He was on his last building when he came to a townhouse on the bottom floor. It was one of the nicer ones, with its own front and back porches, mail slot, front windows, and everything. As he made his way up the pavement, he saw someone making breakfast through the window. As he got closer, he could see a slim boy his age in a dark grey t-shirt and a pair of loose black sweats that hung almost dangerously low on his thin, tattooed hips. He'd seen him around before, and had spent a couple weeks at the beginning of term silently lusting over him. Gerard didn't know much about the boy, except what he'd heard form others. Others being his brother, who somehow knew nearly everyone on campus.

Mikey had told him he was a nice guy, though he was quiet and for the most part kept to himself. He was somewhat of an introvert, much like Gerard himself. He also told him that he was openly gay, which made Gerard not feel so awkward about being so attracted to him. He was completely entranced by this boy as he watched his small frame move around in his kitchen, preparing his breakfast. He caught himself staring, and pulled out the boy's newspaper, deciding that he should be on his way and stop being so creepy. When he looked up to put the paper through the mail slot, something on the boy's arm caught his eye.

There were deep, angry-looking, red gashes with small drops of blood beading at their surfaces all up and down Mystery Boy's left arm. This immediately broke Gerard's heart, and made him wonder why someone so beautiful and flawless would do that to themselves. He took it upon himself to make Mystery Boy feel better. After all, no one that pretty should be allowed to be that sad. So, he did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled out a random scrap of neon green paper from his messenger bag, and scrawled "You're beautiful." on it in black Sharpie, finishing his masterpiece with a small heart below the message.

Satisfied with himself, he slipped the paper under the elastic band, and pushed it through the mail slot. He hoped it would make Mystery Boy feel better, and maybe it would even go so far as to make him think twice the next time he wanted to cut himself, not that this would be the only instance in which Gerard did this. Oh, no. He was adopting Mystery Boy as his new project. He never wanted to see cuts on those arms again. So Gerard made his way back to his townhouse where his precious sketchbook was with a small smile on his face. He had an idea for his next drawing.