I HATE MY LOVER
I Love To Hate You And Hate To Love You

Author: MissBehaving

Ship: Romy

Disclaimer: Not Mine

Feedback appreciated

Rogue: a dishonest or unprincipled person.
Gambit: an opening line or move intended to gain an advantage.

A Rogue and a Gambit.

A loner and a charmer.

They hated each other. They always had. Ever since he defected from Magneto and joined the X-men. Their eyes burned a darker shade whenever they were together.
Her hair was longer now, past her shoulder blades. Like a girl's. His was touching his shoulders, soft as ever. Long for a man's.
Everyone knew she'd deliberately grown it out after he implied she was a man one too many times. But for all the times she called him a girl, he still kept his hair long.
And they still fought every damn chance they got. Trivial matters blown to extraordinary proportions just to have the other's undivided attention and the satisfaction of turning the other's face to an unflattering shade of red.
She baited him with her mask and silence. He retaliated with scathing love notes and hallway confrontations.
She refused to take him seriously. He refused to take her lightly.
In the recreation room, the sarcastic comments came as naturally as breathing and characteristic death glares were fired either way. Hours spent in the Danger Room, and everyone waited with anticipation for the outcome.
With words. With weapons. It didn't matter. They were still together.
When their friends had let go of their childish hostility to companionship years ago, they ignored it. They only had eyes for each other now.
No one else clung to the same old juvenile battles like a security blanket. It was an obsession for them.
Only them.

It was more than enmity. The very existence of the hostility between them became a driving force in both their lives. Even Professor Xavier, for all his scrutiny and observations, could not justify the pair's seemingly illogical and erratic actions.
So their every waking moment was analysed for multiple meanings that soon became preposterous theories.
But their fights were left alone.
And they liked it that way.
They never included anyone in their twisted game of hate and possibly of love.
Each biting remark said, each harsh gesture made, was another elaborate manoeuvre, to gain the upper hand.
They fought in every possible way, at every possible time. Fought with all their rage and hatred. They terrified the students and avoided the teachers. But the pair remained a favourite topic of conversation. The gossipers whispered amongst themselves about their unorthodox behavior while others still envied them for receiving Logan's rare praises.
It was unnervingly calm whenever one of them left the mansion.

Friends frequently speculated on their thoughts whenever they became melancholy.
They were always thinking about each other.
"Him," she'd spit. "Her," he'd spit. Whenever they were questioned.
They never elaborated and they were never asked to. Their friends didn't understand the same vague reasoning from her, or the enigmatic responses from him.

Sometimes an entire wing awoke to screaming. And those terror-filled cries wouldn't be from a fight.
The other would know about it the next day from overheard conversations. But for reasons unknown to everyone else, they silently agreed to never speak of those bête noires. The fears that threatened to overtake their minds.
And at other times, there was crying. Deep gut-wrenching sobs, from her room early in the morning.
And their friends would wake up to their anguish and wonder what was the matter.

Occasionally, just rare enough that people remembered, they'd encounter each other and nothing would happen. They didn't fight. They didn't leave. No-one screamed. No-one cried.
And just when the entire mansion began to think they were finally through with the fighting, they'd start again.
And it would be just as bad.
Or maybe it was worse.
No one could say for certain. They never uttered a word about their bruises to anyone. And no-one dared to stay close enough to their fights to see.
Because then you'd be perceived as a force coming between them. And they would let nothing come between their fighting and their love. Not even the teachers.
And then they would turn their anger towards you.
And no-one could win against them.
Not alone.
But especially not together.
Because they understood each other.
And they could fight as a unit without thinking.
Without mistakes and without effort.

Anything remotely meaningful happened behind closed doors, in the privacy of their rooms. And late at night they screamed.
She screamed, "I hate you!"
He screamed, "I hate you, too!"
She screamed, "I hate being alone!"
He screamed, "I hate being with you!"
She screamed, "Why are you so cruel!"
He screamed, "Why do you treat me like everyone else!"
She screamed, "Why must you leave me again!"
He screamed, "Why do you push me away all the time!"
She screamed, "Why do I love you!"
He screamed, "Why do I love you!"
They screamed, not understanding the words they spoke.
They hated each other.
And yet they loved each other with an undying devotion.

In his room, after a particularly vicious fight, they lay silently on his bed, his body cradling hers closely, almost lovingly, their bodies hot and sweaty.
She rested her head against his shoulder and he tightened his grip around her waist. "Will we forever be together in hate?" she whispered. Her eyes were hazel again, not a shimmering green like the covers of her bed.
His eyes were returning to the piercing shade of bright red they had always been, not the darker, glowing red she loved to see. He didn't answer her question, only pressed his lips against her forehead, then claim her lips lightly.
She pressed herself closer and closed her eyes.
She knew he hated her.
He knew she hated him.
They both knew they loved each other.
Always and forever.