i changed my mind about upcoming chapter order

sorry

anyway warnings.

no seriously, warnings: self-hate, self-harm, body dysphoria, attempted suicide

He sleeps and wakes in starts. Movement wakes him, both his own and others near him.

He hurts through a vague fog, but when he looks, his chest is only bruised.

(That is how he knows this isn't real; in reality, he should not feel so removed from himself, should be able to feel each arc of pain, should be able to see blood and bone white. Should hurt as a god (monster) should hurt.)

He wakes once to Lethe and Olek talking. It's quiet and indistinct, merges and twists with dissonant melody trying to assemble itself in his head. He lays and he listens to them and wonders how much of them is the Oth—their illusion, and how much his mind crafted for him.

(He did not think his mind able to conjure such kind people, but he did always have an active imagination, and he knows what kindness looks like from watching others.)

He wants, very much, to die, but Olek's voice is a low dark key and Olek has stopped him from tearing himself apart before. This is not the moment he needs.

He closes his eyes, lets their voices lull him to another doze.

He rolls over and his chest hurts (almost real).

Lethe is there.

"Luke?"

Right. Luke Friggson. A gift.

(He can't go back, there is no worthy, not for Loki, and there never was.)

(Did they think of that, or did he?)(It's too exquisite, too intimate, surely he was the one who thought the thought and they only made it more breathtaking. A joint effort.)

He forces a pale smile as he sits up, sliding to the edge of the bed.

"Lethe," he says, and his voice does not ring and fill the space, his voice is not his.

(That is how he knows this isn't real.)

"Where is Olek?" he asks.

"He had to step out. He said you hadn't eaten? I brought food with me if you want any."

He hums, mouth a thin line

(he is not weak he does not need help he does not—)

and then he forces another pale smile.

"That would be excellent," he says (swallowing down the haze of violence) because Olek is not here and Lethe is not so strong. "If you could bring it here?"

"Sure," she says, smiling. She does not close the door behind herself, but why would she?

He reaches for the bedstand, hands numb enough they fumble to pull open the drawer (unsteady enough because he knows he knows he knows, and he might manage it this time, not falling for eternity, not illusion vanished, because if he dies here—

the knife is not there. He stares for a few moments, wants to collapse in on himself for the ache and despair

(because it is not there and this will repeat this will—

hates himse—

he wants to die why won't they let him that's why he let go—

There is a cup on the bedstand. Light slices through it and he stares at it. Not a knife but Steve (who invented Steve?)(was it him who made him so imperfect? he always does always marr all that is good and gold—) likes glass, complains of weight when it is not.

He can't make out where Lethe is in the cacophony in his head (be quiet please be quiet stop stop), but if he hurries, if—

The glass shatters as he breaks it on the edge of the bedstand; a few knicks in his skin, but he barely feels them

(that is how he knows this isn't real)

and there is one, large and wickedly curved, that skids across the surface and balances oh so precariously on the edge.

"Luke?" he hears, but it only makes him reach for the shard faster, half-panicked (no no no not this time), heedless of how he grips it because (this isn't real) he needs to hurry, dragging the broken point into his wrist (along the vein it won't matter hurry)—

—and stops, dropping the shard as if burned, because it hurts. Viciously, violently hurts, deep, the glass cutting into his palm where he gripped it, an inch long line of fire on his wrist welling up blood, blood hot and fresh, and it hurts this is real, he is real, shaking as he slams back into himself, staring at his hands, at the blood

this is real

"Luke, no, no, stop," Lethe says, knocking the glass away from him, hands pressing sheets to his wrist to stem the bleeding, and he only stares, mouth parted and shocked.

this is real

Lethe is talking, fast, and he's not even sure she knows what she is saying. She looks up at him and their gazes meet, her eyes warm brown (not an illusion)(his name is Loki, once of Asgard now of Midgard, he is called Luke Friggson, he is a musician, he stopped them from getting to Asgard, he is human now and that is where his strength has gone)

this is real

"What happened to you?" Lethe asks, voice nearly breaking (over him?), and she is holding cloth to his wrist, pressing and real, and Loki opens his mouth to say nothing because he made his choice, he did, no one else—

(if this is real then he is only Luke to Lethe, only Luke, and he hurts—

"Help"

His voice is so quiet, and he swallows (ashamed, how cowardly to ask)(desperate, desperate, because if this is real he is Luke to Lethe, Luke is human, Luke shouldn't be so adrift, he is Luke, he's real, he is, and Lethe is real and Lethe cares). He is shaking, vibrating, a string drawn too tight, pitched sharp and ready to snap.

(if he thinks he will get angry because what happened and nothing nothing nothing)

this is real

His hands rest face up in his lap, left bleeding sluggish, Lethe's hand clamped on his wrist, the white sheet stained crimson. He can feel storms threatening to drown him beneath the surface, cacophony in his head ready to break (hate and spite and anger at being so weak), and he struggles to ride them, pushing his hands (and they hurt, real hurt, this is real) towards her in a gesture that goes nowhere, a shrug as helpless as his voice.

"Help," he says, again, choking the word out before anger can crush him, before he can lash out (he does not want to hurt Lethe, Lethe is real, Lethe cares).

"Of course, Luke," Lethe says, hands tightening around his. "Of course. We're going to go to the hospital, and I'm going to call Janelle." She offers him a smile (one of her smiles, he did not invent that). "Do you want me to call anyone else?"

He can't answer, but he shakes his head (wants to scream and tear and break at even the idea of Janelle, Janelle who knows his weaknesses, but he mustn't hurt Lethe, Lethe doesn't know, Lethe is real, Lethe cares. Lethe is helping, Lethe thinks Janelle will help, he asked and she is helping, Janelle helps, she does).

"Okay. Let's go."

It is not so quick—she cleans his hands and wrist, helps him change to things not blood-stained—and yet it feels as rapid as his heart and his anger pulsing beneath his skin. He feels the movement, even if he keeps forgetting how to breathe, to breathe. The pain in his hand, in his wrist, is real, keeps dragging him back into himself, like a leash he keeps choking on (the most welcome leash he has ever worn)(the only leash, he made a choice).

(It is not the pain of his chest split open, of shattered bones that ache until he is numb and resigned and barely able to feel beyond the haze of it, illusions barely real before his eyes)

Lethe keeps her hand on his, and when she finally deems them both presentable, when she finally leads him out, he follows.