Warning for self-harm.
Kristof made a step aside right as a plate crashed against the wall where his head had been a few seconds ago. He cursed, looked at Sven with big eyes.
“What was that for?” He asked in in disbelief, shielding himself when Sven meant to throw another plate.
“I saw what you were doing with that man, Kristof!” He shouted, anger tinting his voice.
“I was talking with him!”
“No, you were flirting. Don’t lie to me!” Sven threw the plate. Jealousy always made him impulsive.
“I’m not lying to you.” Kristof approached Sven and took him by the shoulders, not shaking him but wanting to. “I love only you, why can’t you see that?”
“No, you don’t.” Sven meant to shrug him off, blond curls following the movement, but Kristof was too strong. “They’ll take you away from me.”
“Nobody will but Death. You have nothing to be worried about.”
He swiped a thumb across a pale shoulder, bare because his shirt, Kristof’s, was too big for his lean frame. He carefully tugged him in his arms, burying a hand in his soft hair. Sven stiffened, struggled for two seconds, then gave in and returned the hug, cheek resting on Kristof’s shoulder. The taller one smelled of perfume and tobacco from the party still happening below.
“I hate knowing you with them.”
“You’re the one who declined my invitation.”
Sven scoffed. “I don’t need these nobles to look down at me, thank you very much. Beside, I was working on a painting.”
“You’re my lover, they wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, they already did behind your back.”
Kristof frowned, stepped back. He noticed a few drops of red imbibing Sven’s white shirt. His heart sank. He grasped his wrist and pulled up his sleeve to see the angry red, straight lines across his arm.
“A painting, you say? I thought you stopped hurting yourself.” He tried to not show his disappointment, but Sven still stepped back with a slight pout.
“This is the only way to ease the pain inside.”
“There’s other ways than to do this. Did you at least clean the wounds?”
At Sven’s obvious silence, Kristof reprieved a sigh and took him to the bathroom, where they kept the necessary kit. Sven had been hurting himself even before they met, it wasn’t an urge he could always control, but artists always had strange habits, didn’t they?
Background story on this PAWW: I wanted to work with a character who had BPD, without falling in the drugged and alcoholic stereotype often associated with that disorder (even though those are some of the symptoms)… It didn’t come out the way I wanted it to, so that’s why it’s so short.
Conatus 
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