My Solution

It's still dark when Ace wakes. For a minute he lays still, tries to determine what has woken him. He becomes aware of something dark, sticky, across his pillow, in his hair, wet on his face. He can taste it, thick and metallic, on his tongue. He feels the familiar panic rise in his chest and he stumbles down the hall, his breath catching. Please, please, please not again, please. His left hand is a haze of pain against his consciousness. Please, please PLEASE not this time, not again!
His feet ache against the cold kitchen floor. Eyes closed, he fumbles for the lightswitch. The third try succeeds and the world glows orange under his eyelids. His hand is curled against his ribs, where he can feel the wetness. But no, it isn't, not again, please no. Leaning against the doorframe, he takes a deep breath and looks down. The jolt of pain in his stomach, hot, ashamed, fills him. His first two fingers are torn strips of flesh amongst a whole lot of red, red, red. It's dripping down his fingers, down his palm, his wrist, onto the floor. So slowly.
"Sh-shit," Ace breathes, and only then does he realise he's crying.
The blood on his lips is beginning to dry and crack. Shivering, shaking, he takes a seat at the table, staring down at the hand, his hand. It looks blurry through the tears.
Unknown to Ace, Hector stands behind him, shadowed in the doorway. He'd heard something, seen the light from the hall.
He watches the boy's back, too skinny, every bone visible through the skin. His shoulders look smaller, his feet bare, toes curled against the tile, tattered, old jeans sitting low on his hips. The scars that splash like violence across his spine, finishing just below the waistband of the dark denim. He's sobbing, his body heaving with shame and distress, tears dripping down off his chin and onto the table, spotting the surface along with his blood.
Hector watches for a long time, silent and unmoving. He is helpless against the force of the boy's grief, his self-hatred. He knows well enough Ace couldn't stand anyone seeing him so weak, so vulnerable. So he quietly leaves, leaves his friend crying brokenly, shuddering and alone, at 3:27a.m.
It's there Ace will soon fall asleep, still crying weakly beside his bloodied, broken fingers.