Hello people. I've had this little story in my head for a while. Imagine two cute guys running around in your mind shouting, "Write us! Write us! Give us personalities and lives. Put us in a plot! We want to boff like bunnies! TOGETHER!" Now I ask you, how can you say no to a request like that?

WARNINGS: There is mention of cutting in this fic, so if that kind of thing bothers you: get over it. No, I'm kidding. If it bothers you, you shouldn't read this. There will also be mention of child abuse. I don't know if it will be physical or just emotional, yet. All in all, this story will be pretty angst-y.

CLAIMER: (I should have put these in all my fics) Cole Black, Luke Myers, and all other characters belong to me. Most of the secondary characters are influenced by real life or what I've read. I would greatly appreciate if no one used them without permission. MiSTing is allowed as long as I'm asked first, and I have the right to flame it if it's a bad MST. You may flame this story, me, and my ancestry all you want, but you have to leave an e- mail address or I will post your flame in the author's notes and tear it apart.

If you want to know what the title means: ask.

Love you all platonically.

And now the story...



After closing and locking the bathroom door I move to stand in front of the mirror for my daily once over. Tall, broad shouldered, and lean. Almost too lean. Brown hair, hazel eyes, average nose and mouth, and if I smiled; straight, even teeth.

A little plain, but not too bad.

I remove my shirt and inspect my upper body. Leanly muscled arms and chest, flat stomach, and all of it covered by pale skin and a smattering of scars.

I open the medicine cabinet and take out the alcohol, and then reach into my back pocket to retrieve my knife.

Just one more time.

I pull out the blade, pour alcohol over it, then raise it to my chest.

Just to feel.

I press the knife against the skin of my left pectoral, directly over my heart. I drag the blade across, drawing a thin, shallow three-inch cut. The alcohol on the blade makes it burn sharply, but no expression crosses my face, and I make no sounds of pain. I set the knife down on the countertop, and watch, detached, as a drop of blood rolls down my body and over my stomach.

This won't be the last time.




"Luke, honey, what's wrong?" my mother asks worriedly from the other side my closed bedroom door.

"Nothing! Jesus, can't you leave me alone?" I ask angrily.

"Honey, I'm just worried. I heard you yell," she explains patiently.

"I told you nothing was wrong. Now go away." I reply, irritated.

I hear my mother's retreating footsteps and sigh in relief, which goes away once I remember the cause for my outburst. My favorite pair of pants lay on my bed, gaping hole prominent.

"Stupid washing machine," I mutter, grabbing the pants and throwing them on the floor. "Now I have to buy new ones." I complain as I search the floor for a clean and undamaged pair. Finally finding one, I pull them on, put on my favorite Gap shirt, and head downstairs for breakfast.

Entering the kitchen I find my little brother and our mom laughing about something.

"What's so funny?" I ask, smiling, as I take a seat in front of my plate.

"Nothing," my mother replies, stifling her laugh and sharing a look with my grinning brother.

"Whatever." I say, no longer smiling.

I eat in silence as my mom and brother talk about my brother's classes and whatever else comes to mind. It's always them talking or laughing together. Ever since Dad died they've been best friends, and I've been in the background. Not that I care. I'm eighteen I'll be graduating in a month, and then after a summer road trip with my friends I'll be going to Duke University on an academic scholarship. I don't need them.

Standing, I pick up my plate and put in the sink to be washed when I get home from school.

"Let's go, Jason." I say, interrupting their chat.

"Okay," he replies, standing and putting his own plate in the sink, he kisses Mom on the cheek before hurrying past me to go get his stuff.

"Have a good day, Luke," Mom says warmly, smiling at me from her seat.

I walk out of the kitchen without replying.


This is just a test to see what kind of response I get, so review if you want it to continue. I hope you liked it.

-- A.H.