I had always considered myself slightly depressed.

I wasn't necessarily sad. It was more like a void; a nothingness. I could feel mildly pleased. I could be slightly annoyed.

This, however... This wasn't a depression. This was something else entirely. I was heartbroken.

Madara didn't show up at work that Monday. He phoned me the night before (he knew I wouldn't pick up because my phone was on mute until I woke up), leaving a voice message saying he was sick. I could hear he wasn't lying; he had a bad cough and was snivelling. If I was lucky, I would catch the same seeing I had almost fucked him yesterday so I could rest at home because I needed it so badly. The absence of him at work saddened me even more than his message did; my eyes were aching by the lack of him in my visual field.

When I was working on Monday, I wondered what it would have been like if he had, in fact, been there. What had happened yesterday hadn't been a small fight. What had happened had been serious. Madara had broken a vase worth thousands of euros and almost hit my head with it (if it was on purpose or not, I didn't know, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out). He had destroyed photos of my child, the implications of which I was afraid to even consider. He'd caused my cheek to be cut open, so close to my eye I started sweating just thinking about it.

After Madara had left, I'd had a panic attack. I didn't remember any of it, just that I fell down on my knees in the broken glass. The hour after that was gone from my memory. When I came round, I was in foetal position on the ground, drooling, so thirsty I would've drunk sea water. There was a scalpel-sharp Japanese kitchen knife covered in blood next to me. I had cut my forearms so deeply, I could see the muscle beneath.

I had never had a panic attack before, never harmed myself. How do I explain this to Sunna? had been my first thought.

I went to the bathroom and vomited; I hated the sight of blood.

And now, I had to work as if nothing had happened, without Madara.

But, luckily, not without him.

He was like an angel, immediately noticing something was wrong. As soon as I came in, he'd noticed the scar beneath my eye, stepped in front of me, brushed his thumb against it. I had looked away, clearly showing I did not want to talk about it, which he had accepted. Of course he had. I felt he had his warm, brown eyes on me the entire workday. Several times, I had to go to my office where I left my phone just to check if Madara had called or texted or called, and every time, I had to take deep breaths so I wouldn't panic in disappointment because of course, he hadn't. But so, neither had I. And every time I came out, Hashirama looked at me, his beautifully shaped eyebrows furrowed in worry. I tried to smile at him, but my lips ended up wobbling and I had to look away.

On the end of Monday, he came to me, put his arms around my waist.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

No, I immediately wanted to say, but then stopped myself. The man in front of me was looking at me earnestly, not looking like someone who asked just to be polite but because he actually cared. Why not? I thought instead.

"Let's go for a walk. Sunday."

It was a long way away, but it was something.

I accepted.

Hashirama's face brightened a little. 

In the afternoon, I texted him from my office.

Me: I would love for us to talk this through. I have put myself in your position and I agree. I should have told you. Of course I should have. But I was incredibly hurt by the fact that you broke my belongings.

He left me on read.

And that triggered the second panic attack.

This time, I somehow forced myself to stay aware as I was at work. I couldn't scream uncontrollably (I had no idea if I actually had the first time, but I couldn't risk it). Instead, I curled up into a pathetic ball and convulsed, tears streaming down my face until I was a salty ocean that had basked in the sun for days. My muscular forearms tensed so much, the rashes I'd created yesterday started to bleed, and I had to close my eyes not to see the blood or I might faint, but I still felt myself close to vomiting when I felt the smell of rust forcing its way into my nostrils, filling my lungs.

The panic attack went on and on and on. Please, I begged. Please, stop.

And then, the door to my office opened.

"Tobirama, where are you, I'm worried, we're-"

Hashirama's voice died when he saw me, and he rushed to my side.

"Babe..." he murmured, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Babe, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe."

He sat down on his knees, took my head into his lap and caressed it, murmuring softly to me as he let the panic attack self-terminate. And then...

"Why..." I heard him stiffen up. "Why is there so much blood?"

Within a second, he pulled my sleeves up.

I had no idea he would react the way he did. For me, it wasn't such a big deal. Inconvenient, yes, but something worthy of a reaction, no.

As he saw my massacred wrists and forearms, he screamed.

He moved so he sat on his knees in front of me. In the dimness the salt from my tears had created in front of my eyes, I saw his contorted face, his eyes filling with tears as well, creating a dry ocean inside him just like mine had done for me. He grabbed my face harshly.

"What are you doing to yourself?" he screamed. I had never heard his voice that way before. "Tobirama, WHY?! Why didn't you call me?!"

He hugged my face to his chest.

And as the beautiful man in front of me gave me the entire world back, crying softly into the void in my soul, I breathed in his now-so-familiar smell.

And indulged. 

"Hi."

I smiled a little, offering him my arm. He looked hesitant and I realised it was because he didn't want to cause me any pain; he hadn't forgotten my cuts. In the end, he took it, the fabric of his marine blue shirt pleasant against my black sweatshirt.

"Hi", he said back, smiling shyly.

He had a necklace, I saw; a simple black choker that was incredibly surprising. He usually didn't wear anything feminine, but with his hair up in a high ponytail, some curled strands framing his face, and some ChapStick making his lips glossy, he looked absolutely devourable.

"How are your wrists?" he asked.

"Healing", I said. "Hashirama, I'm so sorry-"

"Shh", he interrupted softly as we started walking in the early Paris summer. "You told me you have no memory of doing it. I believe you."

We walked in silence for a while, both of us staring at the elephant in the room; the reason we were meeting up for the walk. I wanted to be the first to bring it up, to not be a fucking coward for once in my fucking life, but to my great shame, Hashirama did it before me.

"You're not speaking to Madara, are you?" he asked softly.

I looked at him. "He told you?" The thought of Hashirama actually speaking to Madara filled me with thrill. Madara still hadn't answered my text, and I hadn't sent another one, respecting him and myself too much.

"No", Hashirama said. "We haven't talked about you."

"So you've met him?" I asked, not able to help a pang of jealousy bursting through the excitement.

"No. He's still badly ill. Came out of bed only yesterday, managed to clean his apartment. Still has a fever, though. He sounded terrible when I called him."

I looked ahead. "I see." 

I was quiet for a while before I realised I still hadn't answered Hashirama's question. 

"No, we're not talking", I said.

"What happened?" he asked.

I told him everything. How he came to me. How heated it had become. How he'd seen the photo of Sunna. How I always knew he wouldn't accept it, but how I still had never even been able to imagine his reaction. I expected Hashirama to see both of our viewpoints, but to my surprise, he just unhooked his arm from mine, instead taking my hand and squeezing it.

"I'm so sorry", I said. "That is awful."

He didn't say whose fault he thought it was. But he respected that he was walking with me now, and I needed his support, and he gave it to me. He was great like that.

"I regret not telling him", I said. "It was wrong. And I hate to confess that if you hadn't seen the photos, you wouldn't have known, either. But what he did really hurt me. The photos of Sunna are still in my phone, so I can just print them out and buy new frames. But what if they hadn't been? The implication of what he did is mind-blowing to me."

"I understand. It's terrible."

Hashirama sounded as though he truly meant it.

We conversed softly about the situation for a while longer.

"You know..." I said.

"What?" Oh, God. Hashirama truly was adorable when he looked at me like that; expectantly, lips slightly parted. I was going to ask him to come home with me after this walk.

"I still haven't changed my opinion. The two of you are perfect together. I don't think Madara wants the three of us anymore. I mean, even if we make up I'll still have my daughter. But please. You two would be great."

It pained me to say it.

And from the look on Hashirama's face, it pained him to hear it, too.

He took my hand.

"I won't accept a relationship with Madara unless he accepts me also having a relationship with you", he said and my heart stopped. I hadn't even dared to hope... "It might not be the three of us. But it will be you..." He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles, leaving a soft stain of ChapStick that burned down to my skeleton due to the love it contained. "And me."

I almost cried.

I had done an awful lot of crying lately. 

That evening, the turning point came.

Had I known, I would have made sure to enjoy everything that had happened since it became us three slightly more than I had. I would have made sure to tell Hashirama one extra time I loved him. I would have made sure to wait a minute longer before I came inside of him. Tried to talk myself into seeing the world with brighter colours than what I had allowed myself to paint it with.

Of course, I couldn't have known.

I sat on my couch in my sweatpants and nothing on top, brushing my teeth, enjoying the satisfaction that came of fucking someone for two hours, enjoying the thought of Hashirama, at his own place now, the pain working as a memory of me and what I had done to him. .

I had the news on, and was leaning forwards while brushing vigorously. Madara had made fun of me for having to change my toothbrush every fortnight as I brushed so harshly I destroyed them almost as soon as I put them in my mouth. I smiled a little at the memory.

Then, the TV switched to a man I very, very much knew.

Merlin!

The news showed a clip from a talk show. I smiled when I saw him. Pretty boy... Hadn't told me he would be on the news. I watched him sitting in a couch, being interviewed live, looking fantastic in cream trousers, a light blue shirt and a leisurely grey tweed jacket, his French perfect but cutely tinged with a British accent.

But once my initial surprise had died down, I saw how stiff he was.

And I started hearing what he was actually saying.

"He's amazing on the surface. Donates all of his money." Wait, was he talking about me? "Works with us the same hours we do. But..." His voice wobbled, and he leaned forwards, hid his face in his hands.

"Take your time", the woman interviewing him said softly.

"He uses his power position over us. At least, over me, and the ones I've spoken to at work agree."

What the actual fuck is this about? I felt myself starting to sweat.

"Since when?" the interviewer said.

"Since I first started", Merlin said. "He took me into his office. Told me that everyone who started working for him had to give him something. That he, as the best chef in the world, deserved a gift for employing me." I had never said any such thing. To anyone. "Then, he raped me."

I felt the ground open up beneath me, swallowing me whole.

The interviewer offered Merlin a tissue; he'd started crying silently. It was all so very believable, it almost made me believe it. I found I was questioning myself; had I raped him? "You asked for consent, like, five times", I remembered him saying.

"He kept saying I was a good boy, that it was all very normal. That everyone in the kitchen had let him do it. Tobirama Senju is a great chef, but he has traumatised me. I've paid thousands of euros for therapy."

My doorbell rang. In my transfixed state, I walked to it like a ghost, opened.

A flash went off in my face.

"BBC, can I have an interview?"

"CNN!"

Outside of my door was several journalists.

I closed and locked my front door in panic.

I went to the bathroom and locked that door behind me as well.

I woke up several hours later with several new cuts in my wrists that I had no memory of gifting myself.