Pelle Depression / Self-Harm Headcanons
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Summary: Headcanons for Pelle's episodes / the night of the show where he harmed himself on stage.
Warnings: Self-harm and Depression
Pelle would likely not discuss his depression at all. The first time you saw him in an episode, Øystein took you up to the room so you could see how he stared at the ceiling blankly for hours, days even, at times. He’d probably whip out the rifle and press the barrel against his forehead just to show you just how unbothered he was by everything around him. You’d shove him away, horrified. Your heart would race inside your chest and you’d probably tell him to fuck off and leave you in there.
You’d probably watch him for hours, worrying and wondering what was going on inside his head. If you have any experience with stuff like this, you might be thinking up ways to try and help, or maybe you just feel completely and utterly helpless.
Eventually, he’d sit up and blink at you, smiling softly when his eyes focused. You’d ask him if he’s okay, and he’d shrug and act like nothing had happened. He might even suggest you go outside for a walk together.
Any attempt to bring it up, however gently you might do it, would be met with a shrug and him avoiding eye contact. The concern in your eyes would be very uncomfortable for him to look at, and he’d veer off to walk on his own if you pushed him a little too hard.
I think he’d hide his scars at first, or at least try to, but you’d inevitably see them. Pelle had never cared about people seeing them before, but he liked you and desperately wanted you to like him too. He thought you might be grossed out or scared if you saw them. You were upset. Of course you were, how could you not be when you saw that he’d been hurting himself, but there wouldn’t be an ounce of disgust or anger in your eyes. Fear, maybe for his safety, but concern would be at the forefront.
He wouldn’t stop. Anyone who’s been there knows just how hard it is to get a handle on it. In Pelle’s case, it’s more of a fascination. He likes to feel the sting of the blade digging into the skin and will hold his arm out in front of his face to watch the blood drip down the side of his wrist. The blood loss, in extreme cases, like that night at the first show he’d played with the rest of the boys, brought him so close to that flatlined bliss he’d felt as a child, but it would escape his grasp.
He’d found you after staggering off the stage and clocked the pained look on your face as you took in his self-inflicted wounds. He’d start to feel guilt almost immediately. At no point had he even considered that by hurting himself, he was hurting you by extension.
He’d be quiet and stiff while you patched him up, scared to touch you or wipe away the tears sliding down your cheeks as you sniffled, distraught by the damage he’d managed to do in the hour that he’d been on stage.
He thought about how it had felt when you’d skinned your knee climbing a fence one night while the two of you were out exploring. The way that the blood beaded and the sharp intake of breath that fell from your lips. Seeing you hurt, even if it was just a tiny little scrape, had physically hurt him. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel if you did something like he’d done, especially if it was by your own hand, on purpose.
Pelle would get angry with himself for making you cry, fearful that he’d done enough to get you to leave him this time. You wouldn’t say anything while you bandaged his split-open wrists, scared you’d start actually crying if you did.
You wouldn’t want to make him feel any worse about it, but you’d be overwhelmed, never having seen him hurt himself quite this badly. You’d be terrified he was going to bleed out this time or the next, because surely, there would be a next time.
When you’d finish, Pelle wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye. He’d be halfway to shutting down more, staring vacantly at the ground, exhausted.
“Let’s get you home.” You’d say, using your sleeves to wipe your cheeks, “You must be so tired.” He’d be able to hear the shake in your voice and the way your breath hitched in your throat every so often in the back of the van while you did a poor job of hiding that you were shaken.
He’d follow you up to his room with his head hung, curling into himself by the time the two of you made it through the door.
I don’t think that Pelle would be big on hugs, but when you immediately burst into tears, unable to control your emotions any longer, it becomes clear that you both need one. He’d be a little more alert despite his exhaustion and would wrap his arms around you, not caring about the pressure it was putting on his sore wrists.
He’d bury his face in your hair, muttering repeatedly “I’m sorry” and “please don’t cry,” until you'd both tired yourselves out and gone to bed without talking about it.
Pelle would probably stay up all night watching you guiltily, picking at the edge of the bandage.
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