I can't read love stories anymore. I can't watch them either

It hurts to watch them, or read them, when it gets to the point where they're getting together I can't read it anymore, I have to skim through. It's easier than hurting, because I know it's something I'll never have. Romance, it's just not for me. So I wrote this.

Warning: this story contains suicide, eating disorders, and the vaguest reference to self harm.

The idea of eating anything made him feel sick to his stomach. 'You're internalized this disease, that's why you don't eat, your subconscious is trying to kill the parts of you that are tainted' the voice in his head said, the one he had heard this morning, as soon as he had woken up. The person who stepped into his room early that morning, when he was still half asleep and groggy.

The hall was full of quiet voices, all around him there was sadness. Hanging heads, messy hair, people who were just about given up or who already had. Dark shadows like bruises under their eyes, some of them were on drugs, some of them were depressed, most of them were just angry. Some, who sat in the centre tables, sat with their backs straight, smiles on their faces, talking about their recovery, about the fact that they were brilliantly happy now that they were free from sin.

Arthur sat alone, the eggs looked watered down, the meat was unrecognizable, the toast was soggy and flat. The potatoes looks like rabbit turds.

Someone tapped a ruler on the desk beside him, he lifted his head for a moment, "eat." They said, sternly, "just a few bites, that's it." They walked away, he blinked after them, trying to figure out who that was. Male, or female?

In the end, as everyone was beginning to clear out, Arthur hadn't been able to choke anything down. He put the tray with the others, and started walking. He was aware he was being followed, he couldn't see anyone but he could sense it. Someone was making sure he was still alive, and he would probably be getting shit later, for not eating.

A week later, moved to a different room, a shared one (and wasn't that cruel?), with someone who was so eager to get 'better', that Arthur couldn't stand him. They had stood over him, forced him to eat, a few times now. He ended up throwing it up no more than an hour later. Every time, but they told him some of it stayed down, that he would be getting better if he kept trying.

'You need to go to the lectures, Arthur, and the therapy, you're never going to recover if you don't. Your father is a generous man, he is keeping you here until you're better.'

Even though the boy he was sharing his room with, barely sixteen, he was so willing to change. He poured over each bit of propaganda they gave him, he read it outloud, he mumbled prayers in his sleep. He also looked like a mouse. Arthur didn't like him, and never learned his name.

He lived in a world that was not his own, in a world where he had no place and no purpose, and certainly no control. Let the therapists, the councillors, the lecturers say whatever they'd like, Arthur knew his problem. He couldn't control one tiny part of his life, not one bit, not the smallest part of it, but he could control what he put into his body. He could control how much he ate, he could control that and nothing else.

"Fill this out." A man was saying, a cigarette dangling from his lips, pushing a piece of paper towards him. The lines blurred, questions, a lot of them. "Clearly you need some kind of mental health, we need to evaluate you, we can put you on some kind of medication."

So Arthur filled it out, blinking to clear his vision enough to read. "We're also taking you in today to see if glasses will help." He said, almost boredly, the ash at the end of the cigarette dangled, just about to fall off. He looked at it, for a long moment, before it finally fell. He could see just fine, from there, up close he struggled. Catching things out of the corner of his eye was a lost cause.

He filled out the questions, I do things slowly, Very much, he checked. I have lost interest in aspects of life that used to be important to me, he couldn't remember the last thing that was important to him in his life, he left that one blank, but then went back, and wrote Nothing ever was, and then went back to the It's hard for me to concentrate on reading question to write I can't fucking see.

I feel trapped or caught, he paused at that one, going over it over and over. How can they ask if he felt trapped when he was stuck here? He felt helpless, then, and circled Very much instead of checking it, he was trapped here, completely trapped here.

He pushed the paper away from him, sitting back and focusing his eyes outside, on the pale melting spring outside.

"We'll go over this." The man was stabbing the cigarette into the ash tray. "We'll get you your help, don't worry, just keep holding on." It was the first genuinely kind thing the man had said, Arthur nearly glanced behind him, to see if maybe he had been reading it off from somewhere.

But, perhaps it was genuine. So he nodded, stood, and left the room. He was tired, but it was time for lunch, now, so he needed to go there.

He had been told that conversations with the women were encouraged, but they were not to sneak off alone together. He had considered finding someone, a girl about his age who wanted out of here as soon as she could, and maybe they could fake it, pretend they were in love so then he could leave.

But he didn't know how to read women, he didn't understand them. He didn't think he ever would.

He grabbed a tray, got some of the unpleasant looking food, and sat down at a table, alone, and stared at it. The noodles looked slimy, like they'd been spat on. The sauce was chunky, wet looking, like the eggs from the morning like it had been watered down. The bread was dry, crusty, it crumbled like ash in his hands.

He only managed a little forkful of the sauce. No one was watching him right now, he could get away with not actually eating. But he did try, a little bit, it just looked so unappealing. He felt sick just thinking about eating it.

He wanted to go to his room and hide under the blankets, so he walked slowly towards it, hands stuffed in his pockets, fingertips fiddling with the coin in there.

There was noise in the hall, and casually he watched as a boy shouted his way down the hall. He was thin, not like Arthur was. He was naturally thin, long limbs and delicate wrists, his shirt riding up his back so Arthur could see where the curve of his belly met the jut of his hips. Skin so pale, like snow, like winter on a pale foggy day. Black hair, darker than ebony, framing large ears and his thin face. It curled at his cheeks, around his eyebrows, like it was getting too long and he hadn't a chance to cut it yet. His lips were moving, shouting the most colourful string of curse words Arthur had ever heard. His lips were thick, full, pale like the rest of him but tinged pink.

And as Arthur passed them, a nurse and a therapist following him, guiding him through the halls, he caught sight of those eyes. They were the Northern lights reflecting in clear blue water. Lines under them, dark lashes, the intensity of his gaze met Arthur's. He turned timid, dropping his gaze so the boy was where he couldn't see.

He kept going, went to his room, hid in there until someone came knocking, telling him to grab his coat because he was going to the doctor now.

It took four hours, the drive down to the clinic, the checkup, the tests, the trying to figure out if his vision loss was caused by anything else. His father had already spent thousands of dollars trying to figure out what was wrong with his eyes, he knew nothing would turn up.

"You'll have glasses tomorrow." The woman said, grinning brightly at him. He had let her find some for him, he hadn't cared. They were thin frames, 'you'll only need them when you read, or when you're looking at something close to you' he remembered, so they weren't all the time. Why would he care what they looked like?

He skipped dinner, hid in his room, stared at the darkness at the edges of his vision and in the morning, he choked down a few bites of food under the watchful eye of one of the many employees. He had almost begun to think of them as guards, watching all of them, making sure they didn't leave and that they would obey the rules.

Everyone had a different set of them, but in the end, there was something they all had in common. Some had been sent here, some had come willingly, but he couldn't see them, he could only see the ones forced here, the ones who looked broken. He saw that boy again, sitting across the room from him, those eyes fixed on him. He met them, for a moment, before looking away again. He couldn't meet those eyes, he just had to try to keep the food down. They wanted to make sure he got better, at least, and even if his main purpose was to be a good God-fearing child.

Don't love someone who is the same sex, for it is wrong and sinful and it makes you disgusting, a freak.

That wasn't how it was, not really, but it was close. The stranger was sitting there, glaring down at the food on his place, his fingertips itching, twitching, and now that he wasn't so struck by his strange beauty, he could see the ugly red burn on his lower lip, right in the centre of the pale pink curl of mouth. The lines under his eyes were darker, more prominent, his arms were covered in scars, criss-crossing his skin, thick and thin and wide and short and all over, like a decoration. Like he wore patterned gloves.

He was smoking a cigarette, ashing in the centre of the plate and grinding the butts into the food. People were giving him a wide berth, no one sat by him - Arthur didn't dare.

He dragged himself to the session, the group therapy, the priest in the middle of the room who spoke to them as if they were children. Be free from sin, be free from temptation of the devil, be free.

Arthur sat quietly, listening but gazing out of the window instead, where winter was melting into spring.

After lunch, sitting in the hall watching the strange boy openly (because he couldn't do it out of the corner of his eye) they took him down to the optometrist again, they set the glasses on his face and adjusted them, he said nothing through the process, only giving a short nod when they felt alright on his face. They put them in a case, and took him back to the clinic, to the treatment centre, to whatever the fuck this place was.

They called it a reform camp, mostly for younger kids, parents who can't possibly have gay children. And he's noticed that most people who are here, those that are unwilling, have some other problem too. Depression, he thought, when he looked at the lot of them. Pain in their eyes, slowness in their steps, but he knew how they felt, he knew how they thought, he knew how it was to not be accepted, he knew what that would bring them to.

After dinner, after taking a few more bites that he would struggle to keep down later, he walked the halls and that boy appeared. From up close, the scars on his arms looked like he had stuffed them in a circle of glass shards, like it had been rotating when he had done it. It was almost artful, almost like it hadn't been for pain but for show.

The boy met him in the hall, he was a burst of colour from the plain while walls and the dark tan tiles that made up the floor. He was a bright light in the darkness from outside. He curled his chapped lips into a smile, moving into Arthur's space. His eyes were rimmed red, blue and green like the Northern lights rimmed by blood rising to the surface of the skin.

He was just smiling, "hello" he said, his voice deep, vibrating his throat. "You've been staring at me."

Arthur only shrugged, looking down at the ground, unable to meet those powerful eyes. He could almost feel the stranger smile, "you've probably got a pretty smile, why don't you show me?" Arthur rose his eyes from the floor, staring at him in confusion.

He tried it, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Not one of his fake smiles, the ones he used to wear. He seemed to have misplaced them, lately, those false smiles. He couldn't muster up the strength to make them. Then again, look where he was. The place that sucked away happiness.

The boy laughed, "I'm Merlin. Do you have a name, beautiful?"

"Arthur." He muttered.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you."

With that, the boy was leaving. Arthur could breathe again, but he could feel the lingering shadow of Merlin's presence. He could feel something itch under his skin, something that felt alive while the rest of him was hollow. It stirred inside him, it yearned.

He turned his head, looking down the hall, but Merlin was gone.

Whatever was growing (and he knew damn well what it was but he wasn't going to admit to it yet) beat within him, it thrived as the rest of him rotted. Though Merlin never sat near him in the main hall, he met him in the halls frequently, Arthur began to yearn.

Two more people were brought in, a girl barely fifteen and a boy who was eager to come here, to 'fix' himself. Arthur watched the both of them, watched the girl sit in a chair and pull her knees to her chest, sit with her chin on her knees. She stared at the floor, eyes dripping with tears.

Arthur sat with her that evening, told her he was sorry she was here. She told him, in a soft and quiet voice, that her foster parents had discovered she was gay and had hauled her over here, despite her protests. She had been told that she needed to get her shit together, dropped off here and pulled in. She was Arthur's age, she just looked young.

Her name was Freya, her hair was long and dark and she was small, like Merlin was. There were scars on her arms, but they didn't look like Merlin's did, they were random, like they were made from the claws of a cat. There were bigger scars from her hips to her knees. She sat with them pulled to her chest.

He was sitting with her when Merlin came by, sitting down beside Freya and hugging her, exclaiming her name and squeezing her. She squeezed him back, holding him so tightly, and as Merlin held her, he slipped a folded piece of paper into Arthur's hands.

He put it into his pocket, he would check it later, once he was alone. "I didn't know this is where they brought him." She said, softly, looking after him. "He was my friend, before, I used to know him, we were young." Her voice was so soft, and he could feel someone watching him. Likely judging him, so he inched a little closer to her, so maybe, just maybe, they could both pretend. "Met him in foster care, we were both outcasts so we hung out. He did drugs on the weekend, I think, kept up his grades pretty well." She went quiet, staring over the crowd and the dull brown tables. "His foster parents weren't very kind, they messed him up." She shrugged, "I don't really know much else, but he's a good guy."

Arthur nodded, aware of the way his heart was beating. The two of them went quiet, Freya prodding at the food on her plate, Arthur having already managed a few bites. "Let's pretend." He said, "let's pretend we're together." He kept his voice low, his head down, angled towards her so no one could read his lips. "Maybe we can fake it."

Instead of replying, Freya reached under the table between them and took his hand. She threaded her fingers with his, a rush went through him because he suddenly thought he could do this. He could pretend, he could fake it with Freya and the two of them could run far, far away from here.

And Merlin, the boy he longed for.

He ducked into the bathroom after the meal, and he knew damn well someone was waiting just outside for him, to make sure he wasn't making himself puke. Instead, he opened the little note, folded tightly.

Hey beautiful, meet me tonight, outside, follow the light of the moon.

Arthur would. He would meet him whenever he wanted. Wherever. That night he slipped outside, out into the cool nighttime. The grass was sludgy, wet, more mud than grass. The breeze was soft, and up above the moon was full and round, hanging love in the sky. He followed the moon, out into the woods surrounding the whole place. And once he was there, a curl of smoke drifted to the trees.

Merlin sat under it, looking over at him, grinning at him, the scab on his lip was a dark spot now, not the ugly one it was. His eyes seemed brighter in the moon, the curve of his cheekbones pure white, the shadows under them blacker than his hair.

Arthur sat down beside him, "I notice you don't eat much." He said, pulling the cigarette from his chapped lips, a little spot of blood on the filter. "And you're getting better, aren't you? You don't look as unhappy as you did. They got you on fucking medication?"

"No," he said, softly, they had given it to him, yes, but Arthur didn't want to take it. He hated the idea of being on pills in order to feel normal. But on his own, he was beginning to feel again. Little by little. Merlin was a mystery he wanted to figure out. Where had those scars come from? Had he done it to himself?

"How's that smile coming along?" He asked, grinning, Arthur only shrugged. "I really want to fucking kiss you. Can I do that?" He asked, those intense eyes focused on Arthur.

He wanted, he felt it in his skin, burning him from the inside out. It was heat, it was fire, and he could barely manage words before Merlin was crawling on top of him.

His skin was cool and dry, smothering the flame inside him to a low burn, a hot smoulder. When Merlin kissed him, he tasted like the river, the salty air of the ocean, cool and fresh.

When Merlin pulled away, meeting his eyes, nose to nose, he smiled again. "I'm going to get out of here." Arthur said, his voice soft. "Freya and I are going to pretend there's something there, then we can get the hell out of here."

"That's the most I've heard you speak." Merlin purred, slender knees on either side of one of his thighs. The need was growing inside him again, if he moved one hand, he could reach out and touch Merlin's knee, so he did, hesitantly. Though he had not believed a word that had been said, he still questioned himself. Was it wrong to want to touch? Was it wrong to want someone who didn't have tits?

He bent into Merlin's second kiss, his palm flattening against the worn jeans he wore. He marvelled at the muscles of his thigh, strong and lean, and higher, to where leg met body, his hand exploring up his body.

It was strange to touch like this, it was new, it was powerful, he thought he could feel the pulse of Merlin's heart, feel the blood moving through his veins. Steadily, over and over and over, Merlin was alive and he was here, kissing Arthur with his mouth and his tongue and the sharp points of his teeth.

Every touch was new, a foreign body, a person who wasn't him, who was touching him, who was kissing him. He brought his other hand up, moving his mouth into Merlin's and touching the worn fabric of his clothes, skimming his fingers. He could map out his skin, if he would be allowed, he wanted to. He would, he needed to. But he was scared, if they were caught his father would hear about it, and it would not end well if that happened.

Merlin settled down on top of him, long legs settled between Arthur's, Merlin covering Arthur with his body, arms settling together, breathing in the smell of his hair. "When you and Freya get out of here," Merlin said, "I'll be right after you. I'll find you guys." He could feel him grin, feel Merlin bury his face under Arthur's chin. "You can't stop me, either, you're officially stuck with me."

Arthur chuckled, somehow he didn't think he'd mind that at all.

Merlin sat up, suddenly, peering down at Arthur. "You laughed." He said, his eyes wide. He shifted, holding himself up on one arm and touching his cheek with the other hand, his hand was cold as the moon. "That's a lovely sound."

He told Freya, a little bit about it, the next morning. They sat together, they talked, they acted like there was something between them. Merlin still sat alone, still smashed cigarettes into his food when he was done eating and swore loudly every time he heard something he didn't like.

Arthur still wanted to map out his skin with his fingertips, he wanted to touch every single scar on his body, he wanted to kiss his knees and his knuckles, he wanted to run his fingers through his hair.

He began to eat more, and he kept it down, too. And after a little while, he began to feel hungry again. The sickness began to dwindle, everything started to look a little better, it even started to smell better. Soup, they had noticed, had him eating more, so they had made batches of it, just for him.

Even if this place suffocated him, he had more energy, he was beginning to heal. If nothing else, that's what he could take away from this place. And as he began to feel stronger, as he started to gain weight, he knew he couldn't let himself get to that point ever again. But there was Merlin, meeting him at night, sharing kisses, letting his fingers explore, holding him close.

Merlin was his obsession, the strong meat of his flesh didn't budge when he pressed on it, the lines of his ribs, his collarbones, the texture of his skin, he learned it all. He ran his across the dips of his hipbones, his thighs. Merlin's mouth explored Arthur's jawline, his throat, his collarbones. But he seemed to understand Arthur's hesitation, he didn't move too quickly, he didn't push, he only kissed and repeated Arthur's movements, only touching where Arthur had already touched.

The days ticked by, he listened to the priests, he spent time with Freya, he pretended. Merlin didn't, Merlin was defiant, Merlin only had a few months left before his birthday, and on his birthday, he was going to leave. He was going to walk out and no one could stop him.

Arthur began to think that he would be able to leave soon, he and Merlin were outside (and tonight, Freya was on watch, so if anyone came looking for them they could make it seem like it was her and Arthur meeting), lying on the hard wet ground. Arthur had slipped his hand under Merlin's shirt, his palm against his ribs, fingertips smoothing the hair on his chest.

"I didn't know people like you existed." Merlin said, voice warm. "You promise you'll come for me?"

"I do."

"Fucking better." But Merlin was grinning, he could feel it. "I can't fucking wait to get out of here, it'll be amazing, I can fuck you every day." Arthur flushed, heat reaching his ears. Merlin always spoke like that, but he hadn't acted on it. "We won't have to hide." Merlin was grinning, skin glowing under the misty moon. "I love you." He said, staring at the stars.

"What?"

"I love you, you idiot." He said, sitting up, leaning over him, skinny fingers and thin wrists pressing the flat of his palm on his chest.

Arthur stared blankly, judging the honesty, the sincerity, of the words. "Shit." He muttered, and kissed him. Merlin tasted like cigarettes, his mouth cold, he tugged him in close. As he kissed him, he wondered.

"I love you." He replied, and rolled the two of them over, pushing Merlin down into the grass. He pulled his shirt off of him, and bent down to finally take a little bit more. He felt Merlin squirm under him, his breaths coming in little gasps, Merlin's hands coming up to grasp his hair.

His tongue explored his salty skin, heat rushing to the surface, their bodies warm. The air was so cold around them, so they generated their own heat. Merlin ran is fingers under Arthur's shirt, the touch of his fingers like ice cubes, to the top of his pants.

Merlin pushed his limits this time, he explored, and his hands were talented, so was his tongue. It was scary but it was also thrilling, his blood rushed hot and fast through him, his head spun, his heart fluttered.

They walked hand in hand through the woods, to where Freya was, Freya saw them, looking up from her book, and grinned. "I'm going in." She said, "it's cold out here, I don't know how you do it."

Merlin turned to him, they were still safe hidden in the trees. He kissed him again, "promise me." Merlin said, and his voice, always so rough and tough, "that you'll come for me. You won't leave me behind here."

"I promise." Arthur said, even if it killed him he would come here to find Merlin. Whatever it took, he would do it. He was finally feeling comfortable in his own skin, and if it hadn't been for Merlin, he never would.

Two weeks later, and they were meeting with him again. "You've done so well, Arthur." The therapist said, smiling kindly at him. "We're all very proud of you, I think you've learned what it is to be a fully functioning young man. And, I think you'll enjoy, Freya has completed her program too. You'll have time to find her before your father comes to get you."

"Thank you, I would like that." He really did like Freya, and if he had to pretend for the rest of his life, he would have chosen her. He loved her, not in the way he loved Merlin, but he loved her.

He did meet up with her, he was leaving tomorrow and so was she, he told her that he wanted her to meet his father. He was terrifying, but if he met her then they could stay in contact. They could run off together, get Merlin, and the three of them would run off together, they'd never have to worry about anyone or anything anymore.

He met Merlin that night, the last night they'd have, and held Merlin tight. "Hold on until we get here." He said, softly. "I know this place drains the life out of you."

"You're fucking right." Merlin muttered. Before meeting Merlin, before meeting Freya, he was so tired, so weary, so worn down that he couldn't bring himself to eat.

"Promise me you'll hold on." He said.

"Yeah, I will. You'd better come pick me up." But he could see that Merlin was worried, he was insecure. He was nervous and scared, Arthur kissed him.

"I promise." He said again, he'd say it over and over and over until Merlin believed it.

The two of them stayed out all night, murmuring promises to each other, Merlin shook quietly in his arms. The next day, Arthur walked to meet his father, Freya's hand sweaty and clenched tightly in his. The meeting between their parents went well, and as they parted, Arthur kissed Freya's cheek.

The months moved slowly, passing each day, calling once a week to talk to Merlin. Merlin told him, in a shaky voice, cursing every third word, that things were hell here. Arthur prepared for a new life, and finally, he got into his car and drove. He picked up Freya, and the two of them drove to the clinic. He was excited, he was taking Merlin home. He was a day early, to surprise him. His fingers trembled with anticipation.

And when Arthur went back to the clinic, the day before his birthday, no one knew where he was.

Merlin, the boy who put on such an act to hide his insecurities, the boy with the Northern lights in his eyes, the boy with skin like the pale winter, the boy who loved him, he couldn't find him. No one had any idea where he was.

Merlin propped a chair up against the door to his room, tied a rope around his throat and hung himself. He had broken the promise that he would hold on. He had broken his neck and bitten his tongue. The Northern lights had faded from his eyes, leaving them pale and grey. His skin was the colour of ash, there was dried blood on his lips, rusty and cracked, the last spot of his once bright colour in the darkened room.

epilogue~

Merlin's picture was framed over the fireplace, fire burned in the grate, it crackled pleasantly. He still smiled in that picture, his eyes were still lit up, bright and happy. In that picture, he had no care in the world, a smile on his face, the sun above him.

He sat on the couch, soft footsteps, socks on carpet, came towards him. Freya bent down, kissed his temple, ruffled his hair fondly, and sat down beside him. She curled up against Arthur's side, and her wife sat down on the other side of her, cuddling up to her. Arthur sat quietly, watching the fire in front of him.

"Gwaine called." Freya said softly. "He was looking for you."

"Not tonight." Arthur said, gently, though he might have been falling for Gwaine, who didn't really swear that often, he couldn't go see him tonight. Not when Merlin's picture stared back at him - a single moment when he had been happy frozen in time.

He lit a cigarette, sucked on it slowly. The taste reminded him of Merlin, the brand he used to smoke. And he only smoked around this time, when the day he was supposed to be free came around. And he supposed, in a way, he was free now. Completely free, unhindered by anything or anyone. He closed his eyes.

"I can't fucking wait to get out of here, it'll be amazing, I can fuck you every day. We won't have to hide." Merlin's smile was bright as the stars and the sun on the other side of the world. "I love you."

He would never forget his voice. Freya's wife went to bed, leaving only the two of them. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled his head down to her chest and stroked his hair.

"I really want to fucking kiss you. Can I do that?"

The next night, he went out with Gwaine, and after, brought him over to his house and pulled the picture off the mantel. "If you want to be with me." He said, softly, "if you're serious, there's something you need to know."

Gwaine took the picture, stared at the man in the frame. "That's Merlin. He saved my life, I wouldn't be here without him. My father sent me to gay reform camp, I would be dead if I hadn't met him."

Gwaine said nothing, only stared at the picture.

"He took his own life four years ago."

"I'll never compete with him, will I? I'll never be Merlin."

Arthur took the picture from him, touching the cool glass. "No one ever will. But, you need to know who he is and what he means to me."

Gwaine stepped forwards, touching Arthur's cheek. "I understand." He said, softly. "If I mean half as much as he did to you, I think I'll be happy." He kissed Gwaine, then, and after he had pulled away he set the picture down again, back where it belonged. He would never forget.