Summary (revised): Phoenix cuts himself.

... Oh, hush; I'm allowed to be an idiot about my summaries too, you know. Rated for somewhat graphic self-harm.

Drip, drop.

He leaned his head against the tiled wall behind him, raising his left arm to get a better look at it. Belatedly, he realized his suit might be ruined by the time he was done, but he didn't care. Not at the moment, anyway.

He raised his right hand and swiped it across his left arm (it wasn't red enough he could still feel it make it stop go away go away go AWAY) and another mark appeared, wider and deeper than the last.

Drip, drop.

The liquid dribbled down his wrist, staining his not-rolled-down-far-enough sleeve, drip-dropping to the bathtub below him. He watched in numb fascination, wanting to see more more more more more—

The Steel Samurai theme resounded loudly in the bathroom, originating from his trousers' front right pocket, jolting him somewhat from his stupor. He dropped the item in his hand to the bathtub floor, fumbling for his ancient phone (really, who had a phone with an antenna these days?).

It was Miles.

He pressed "Ignore".

He set his phone down on the edge of the tub.

He continued to stare at his left arm, now thoroughly soaked in red.

He picked up the dropped item.

He raised it to his wrist once more.

The door opened.

He looked up. It was Miles.

He ignored him and pressed the item into his wrist once more, gliding it slowly across, almost as if taunting the maroon-clad prosecutor.

Said prosecutor looked haunted, horrified, and hurt.

Said prosecutor briskly approached him.

Said prosecutor forced his hand away from his wrist, simultaneously making him drop the item.

Said prosecutor was now holding him, harshly whispering apologies and promises and sobbing into his right ear.

After a time, hesitantly, he hugged back.

Drip, drop.

The prosecutor's suit was now stained with his tears.

It was alright, because his suit was stained with the prosecutor's tears, too.