Title: Never Strike Twice
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Any of 'em. Damn the luck.
Rating: PG-13 for language, some violence, non-graphic m/m slash, incest if you wanna look at it that way.
Notes: Huh. My first in-character E&C slash fic. I'll probably burn some day for this one, but feh.
******
You're beautiful when you bleed.
The way the blood dots your face, the way tears of pain well up in your gorgeous blue eyes, the way you try to hide them and stay strong in front of me by not crying. It's all too much for me. It's completely wrong for me to think the way I do, but I can't change how I feel when I hear you whimper and see your lips tremble. Some people say I do it because I crave the power it gives me over you. They obviously haven't seen you in pain before.
We're sitting in the locker room now. Well, at least we *were* sitting at one point. You're touching your mouth right now, eyes wide in shock when you pull your hand back and see blood on your fingertips. It's all I can do not to pull you in my arms and kiss you breathless.
A few minutes ago we got into an argument over whose fault it was that we lost our match. You said something I didn't agree with. Unfortunately, I can't remember what it was, but I guess that doesn't really matter much now. Regardless, I backhanded you and, once your other cheek was turned to me, I punched you. It was hard enough to split your lip and send blood trickling from the corner of your mouth. You stared at me in silence for the longest time, those eyes of yours widened in shock and betrayal. I'd be lying if I said it didn't turn me on more than anything. Then you did something I never thought you would -- you fought back.
There's a delicious sound eerily similar to that of bones cracking, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of my head; you're throwing me up against my locker, I realize after a confused moment. I look up at you to see your hair wild and loose about your shoulders, blood moving in a thin trail down your chin, face marred by intense anger, and I want so very badly to just ravish you right there on the locker room floor. You're so incredibly sexy when you're mad.
You don't say anything at first, just stand there with that crazed look on your face, breathing heavily against my face. I have to admit, even while I'm somewhat scared, it's incredibly thrilling. I've never wanted you so bad in my life, but I'm not about to tell you that now. Maybe later.
"Don't," you begin finally, voice breaking in your fury, "don't *ever* fucking hit me again, Edge." You're trembling violently, and God, I'm fascinated by how your mouth works around the words, forcing them out like they sting your mouth, saying my name like it's some kind of swear word. I idly find myself wondering how much more attractive I would find it if you were screaming it instead. I'm almost tempted to ask, but instead I stand there and let you clutch my hair a bit more, nails digging painfully into my scalp and pulling at the roots, eyes locked on mine in this private hatred I haven't seen from you since we split with Gangrel.
Apparently, li'l bro, you're still that mysterious bundle of silent rage, but at least now you've got cute one liners to cover it up.
You've got this look and attitude right now that's making it impossible for me to tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me right through my locker, and it's that questioning, that unknown that I crave. Some say I do it for the control, or I do it for the blood, or I do it because I'm a heartless bastard that likes hurting you. I do it because I like never knowing what you're going to do. I like pushing you, hitting buttons, driving nails into your nerves. I like when you cry on my shoulder and hold on so tight I can barely breathe. I like when you're dependent on me. It makes me feel like something. And, more than anything, I know you're unstable and ... well, excuse the pun, on the edge, and I know one of these days I'm going to push you too far and you'll either fall right over or take me with you.
Honestly, I don't particularly care if I fall over with you. I can think of worse ways to go.
All these thoughts and about a thousand more are running through my head when suddenly you turn and storm out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind you the hinges rattle. So, left alone and faced with the knowledge of what I've done to your beautiful face and your hopelessly trusting self, I sink down onto the bench and stare down at your gym bag, left open in your haste to leave me.
That's when it hits me that you're afraid of me. You hide it well, usually only showing that you're hurt and you don't like being used the way that you are, but I've never seen fear in your eyes. I've never seen you in such a hurry to get away from me before. It's a new feeling that I'm not at all sure how to accept.
So I don't.
******
I'm walking back to the hotel now, since you took off with the car. Thanks. Not that I can honestly blame you, but it's a little tough walking the full half mile weighed down by both our gym bags in the sweltering mid-July Atlanta heat. I'm too cheap to pay for a cab, and I thought I could use the time to myself to figure out what I'm going to say in apology and what will be most likely to get us in bed.
Alright, so maybe it's not fair, but you know I love you.
I still smile every time I remember our first kiss. First real kiss, that is. I was sixteen, a mighty upper classman, while you were two years and as many grades below me, a lowly freshman. We had gym together during the last period of the day, and after the obligatory exercises, we spent most of our free time sliding around in our socks on the secondary basketball court and playing hockey with those stupid foam sticks and cardboard pucks. You always accused me of not playing fair, of encouraging my friends to pick on you, of not taking up for you like I should or of being too overprotective, of anything that seemed to be pissing you off at any given time.
One day you accused me of trying to steal your girlfriend. Never mind the fact she was a senior and only with you because she thought you were cute and slept with every guy she had a crush on, or that there was quite an age gap between the both of you. She was "your" girl, as you often put it, and I was to keep my hands and eyes off her. Ironically enough, just after you brought up that latest quarrel with me, she walked in the gym to get the shoes she'd forgotten, waved when she caught my eye, and then left just as quickly. You went completely nuts and, being you, threw the first punch.
Fighting with us was as natural as a cat licking its fur. What was so unusual about it was that you didn't pull your punch or try to soften the blow, but you aimed straight for my face, connecting my jaw with a strong right hook. I stumbled back a few steps, hand to my face, and that was it. Our hockey sticks, foam though they may have been, quickly became offensive weapons. When that lost its effectiveness, I lunged at you -- a spear, I guess you could say -- and took you to the ground. You screamed when your head hit the gym floor, and for a minute I was terrified that I'd really hurt you.
Then you looked up at me with that same look you still give me, all innocent anger and hurt and something I later identified as unrelenting lust. With me straddling you like I was, holding your wrists down to keep from being punched again, I was free to take a good look at you for what was metaphorically the first time. Your hair was shorter then, but still long enough to spill out behind you and fan about your head on the floor. Your eyes were still just as blue and piercing, capable of conveying a thousand different emotions and yet revealing none you wished to keep hidden. Your muscles were much more defined than I'd ever remembered seeing them, thanks to you letting yourself get dragged into my dream of becoming a wrestler. What I think tore it for me was the bloody gash just above your right eye. As a friend and brother my first instinct was to clean it up and apologize, but part of me was elated that I'd left my mark on you, claimed you as mine, made you realize you were still weaker than me.
Childish, yes, but whatever. You were beautiful and I wanted you more than I'd ever wanted anyone in my entire life.
So, stuck in that position with you wriggling underneath me in a desperate attempt to free yourself, I did the only thing I could really think to do -- I leaned down and kissed you. The look on your face was priceless. To this day I'm not sure if it was disgust or some dark passion you'd kept bottled inside for so very long. You fought it, but the more you did the more you had to move, and that was making you get hard from rubbing up so close against me. You eventually gave that up and, a few seconds later, your will to keep fighting. Inside, even while I was wondering what in the hell was wrong with me that I was kissing my younger brother, I was doing a little happy dance to feel you fall slack against the floor and stop struggling. It almost killed me when I felt your tongue slip into my mouth.
Needless to say, our fight didn't last that long.
We were always so close, much closer than other pairs of brothers we knew, it was amazing we never realized up until then that our feelings were more than just "the norm", so to speak. It's a connection unlike any other when you realize your love for someone else goes deeper than even blood. Revolting in a sense, sure, but nevertheless overwhelming. That brought about more than its share of fights with us. Gradually, though, they grew farther apart as we learned to live with each other's odd personal quirks and opinions, but those fights we did have were far more brutal than they'd ever been. Bruises formed, blood was shed, bridges were burnt, but it's what first got us into bed. I'd crawl up next to you in the middle of the night and stroke your cheek and apologize for hurting you, you'd accept and kiss me, and it was all passion and bliss from there on for the rest of the night.
I don't know if anyone else in the fed knows about us. I'm sure they have more than enough clues, but whether anyone has connected point A to point B yet is beyond me. You've always been horrified at the idea of anyone finding out how we spend so many of our private hours, sometimes just lying around holding each other and watching movies, other times making notches in the wall with the headboard of the bed. And, honestly, I don't think too many people would really give a damn if they *did* know the truth. We've beaten them all in one match or other, so I doubt very seriously they would ever bring it up. Through it all, for better or worse, we've always been there for each other and always guarded each other's back.
But you've never hit me back before with such force and so intent on hurting me, and it's that little sliver of doubt that leaves me shaking by the time I finally reach the hotel.
I'm just barely able to force myself in the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. Doubt after nagging doubt races through my head, convincing me I've pushed you too far this time and that you'll never speak to me again, that I should have quit while I was ahead and just recognized you as a gift to me and left it at that. But no, I've always had to test myself and others.
So I'm childish *and* stupid, I guess.
It's only by my slightly masochistic need to inflict more pain on myself than necessary that I force myself into the room on shaky legs. I curse myself inwardly for being such a coward, but I can't help it. I'm not afraid of you hurting me. I can take pain as well as deliver it, just that you never seem willing to take it out on me. It's the fear of what you'll say to me that makes me want to find you and hug you and promise never to lay another finger on you in anger again.
I drop our bags down by the door once it closes and follow the sound of running water. The bathroom door's open and I completely disregard all rights to privacy; this is more important. I push it open, startled momentarily by the blast of heat and steam that hits me directly in the face, enveloping me until I think I'm suffocating. I almost run back out the door, but I kick it closed behind me. I will stay and talk. I will. If I don't pass out from heat exhaustion, of course.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the stinging from the steam enough to see through it, and I can see that the shower door with the warped glass has been left open. It takes another moment before I realize that the red-skinned thing huddling in the floor of the bathtub is you, and it almost breaks my heart in two when I do. Your knees are drawn to your chest, arms around them and your forehead touching your kneecaps. I kneel by the tub and reach a hand in to touch your shoulder, hissing loudly when the scalding hot water touches my skin.
"Jesus," I whisper quietly, shutting the water off and immediately setting to work on pulling you out of the tub. The instant you feel me touch you, though, you jump up and land harshly against the far wall, staring at me like some sort of frightened, wounded prey. Part of me finds that alarmingly seductive, but for the most part I'm shocked. You've never pulled away from me like that before, and it twists something deep in my gut when I see the pure terror in your eyes, those eyes that have looked up at me so lovingly more often than not.
"Don't touch me," you warn, pushing the wet hair away that's plastered to your face. I start to reach out to help when you smack my hand away, making it hit painfully against the faucet. "Don't."
"Christian, I --"
"Why do you keep hurting me?" You ask it the same way a child would ask a parent why a beloved pet died, and it's enough to make me lean back to rest my full weight on my ankles. That sickened little ball in the pit of my stomach gets worse when it occurs to me that even while the water's stopped running, your cheeks are still growing increasingly wet and splotchy.
"You're crying. Chris, why're you --"
"Answer me, you son of a bitch!" you scream angrily, kicking out viciously. I narrowly avoid getting my hand pinned against the side of the tub and consequently broken. Though I want to make a smart remark about you having just insulted your own mother as well, I choke it back down; I don't need to give you another reason to kill me. You don't give me a chance, anyway. "Fucking *answer* me, Edge! Why is it fun for you to hurt me? It's like...like you get off on it or something! What, is that it?" you ask, firing off question after question without giving me time to answer any of them. "Do you beat me up and then go whack yourself off or something? Is that what you're about, you sick fuck?"
I am, to be completely honest, speechless. I've never seen you so angry or upset about anything, much less about me. Us. Not that I'm really given a chance to answer anyway. Before I can react you start clawing wildly at your arm, leaving frighteningly deep gashes in it with just your nails. You keep scratching while my mind tries to figure out what's happening, and by the time it registers, you've managed to open up a few small cuts.
"Hey, look, I'm bleeding now! Look!" You demand, holding the arm out for my inspection and then grabbing my shirt collar, pulling me roughly into the tub with you. We're immediately up against the shower wall and you're wrapping your arms and legs around me, keeping me tight against you. "I'm hurt. You wanna fuck me now? C'mon, let's go." You lace your hands in my hair and push your tongue forcefully into my mouth, and for a split second I want nothing more than to give in and let you get your frustration out. Then I hear you sob again while trying to keep your tears at bay and I pull back, rubbing my thumbs along your cheeks and tracing the paths your tears have left.
"I love you," I whisper in what I hope is a comforting tone. You shake your head and try to kiss me again, but I stop you and take your arm instead, raising it to my lips and kissing each of the individual cuts that have opened. "I love you, and I don't want you to hurt yourself. I don't want ... Christian, listen to me. I love you." I keep repeating that over and over again, but you don't seem to be listening. You just yank your arm back and double over, sobs twice as loud and violent now as they were when I found you.
Well, shit. I guess I *did* push you too far this time.
Not knowing what else to do for you when you won't let me do anything, I head back out into the main room and manage to pull my shoes and socks off before collapsing in my bed. I'm in that pleasant sleep-conscious state when I hear the bathroom door close softly, then your feet shuffling across the carpet. The blankets rustle, and I know that noise is you trying to slip into bed as quietly as you possibly can.
Here goes nothin'.
I give you a couple minutes to make yourself comfortable, then slide the covers back and crawl into bed behind you, touching my fingertips to your hips and lightly rubbing the waistband of your boxers. I lean down to rest my chin in the crook of your neck that adjoins to your shoulder, then pull a small part of your ear between my lips to get your attention.
"I love you."
You don't answer immediately, but I figure you're just still pissed at me. I can keep telling myself that, anyway. I get my answer when you curl in on yourself and move away from me.
"Why...why do you keep hurting me?" You ask again, voice so pitiful and quiet I almost break down crying at the sound of it. "I just...I don't understand."
You shift uneasily when you feel my arm loosen from around you, then look over your shoulder to see what I'm doing. "Chris, I . . . You can hit me if you want to. Hurt me, Christian. Just take it out on me for being such a prick to you."
I thought you'd appreciate that, but instead your eyes narrow in obvious disapproval. "Unlike you, Edge, I don't need to hurt you to prove that I love you." The comment is made with such venom and deep sadness I'm caught off guard and unable to reply. You take my temporary silence as a chance to keep going. "You're not going to kiss and make up this time. I love you more than life itself and you know that, but I can't keep going like this, man, I can't. We're not gonna just kiss and have sex and then wake up in the morning and pretend like everything's okay." You nudge me hard in the abdomen with your elbow, almost forcing me out of the bed. "Now get the fuck out of my bed, 'cause you're not getting your way tonight."
Dejected and ashamed, I trudge back to my bed with my proverbial tail between my legs. I'm aware of you breaking into tears again nearly as soon as my head hits the pillow, and I almost join you in crying when I realize that maybe I was only hurting myself all along.
But you'll come back to me. You always do.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Any of 'em. Damn the luck.
Rating: PG-13 for language, some violence, non-graphic m/m slash, incest if you wanna look at it that way.
Notes: Huh. My first in-character E&C slash fic. I'll probably burn some day for this one, but feh.
******
You're beautiful when you bleed.
The way the blood dots your face, the way tears of pain well up in your gorgeous blue eyes, the way you try to hide them and stay strong in front of me by not crying. It's all too much for me. It's completely wrong for me to think the way I do, but I can't change how I feel when I hear you whimper and see your lips tremble. Some people say I do it because I crave the power it gives me over you. They obviously haven't seen you in pain before.
We're sitting in the locker room now. Well, at least we *were* sitting at one point. You're touching your mouth right now, eyes wide in shock when you pull your hand back and see blood on your fingertips. It's all I can do not to pull you in my arms and kiss you breathless.
A few minutes ago we got into an argument over whose fault it was that we lost our match. You said something I didn't agree with. Unfortunately, I can't remember what it was, but I guess that doesn't really matter much now. Regardless, I backhanded you and, once your other cheek was turned to me, I punched you. It was hard enough to split your lip and send blood trickling from the corner of your mouth. You stared at me in silence for the longest time, those eyes of yours widened in shock and betrayal. I'd be lying if I said it didn't turn me on more than anything. Then you did something I never thought you would -- you fought back.
There's a delicious sound eerily similar to that of bones cracking, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of my head; you're throwing me up against my locker, I realize after a confused moment. I look up at you to see your hair wild and loose about your shoulders, blood moving in a thin trail down your chin, face marred by intense anger, and I want so very badly to just ravish you right there on the locker room floor. You're so incredibly sexy when you're mad.
You don't say anything at first, just stand there with that crazed look on your face, breathing heavily against my face. I have to admit, even while I'm somewhat scared, it's incredibly thrilling. I've never wanted you so bad in my life, but I'm not about to tell you that now. Maybe later.
"Don't," you begin finally, voice breaking in your fury, "don't *ever* fucking hit me again, Edge." You're trembling violently, and God, I'm fascinated by how your mouth works around the words, forcing them out like they sting your mouth, saying my name like it's some kind of swear word. I idly find myself wondering how much more attractive I would find it if you were screaming it instead. I'm almost tempted to ask, but instead I stand there and let you clutch my hair a bit more, nails digging painfully into my scalp and pulling at the roots, eyes locked on mine in this private hatred I haven't seen from you since we split with Gangrel.
Apparently, li'l bro, you're still that mysterious bundle of silent rage, but at least now you've got cute one liners to cover it up.
You've got this look and attitude right now that's making it impossible for me to tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me right through my locker, and it's that questioning, that unknown that I crave. Some say I do it for the control, or I do it for the blood, or I do it because I'm a heartless bastard that likes hurting you. I do it because I like never knowing what you're going to do. I like pushing you, hitting buttons, driving nails into your nerves. I like when you cry on my shoulder and hold on so tight I can barely breathe. I like when you're dependent on me. It makes me feel like something. And, more than anything, I know you're unstable and ... well, excuse the pun, on the edge, and I know one of these days I'm going to push you too far and you'll either fall right over or take me with you.
Honestly, I don't particularly care if I fall over with you. I can think of worse ways to go.
All these thoughts and about a thousand more are running through my head when suddenly you turn and storm out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind you the hinges rattle. So, left alone and faced with the knowledge of what I've done to your beautiful face and your hopelessly trusting self, I sink down onto the bench and stare down at your gym bag, left open in your haste to leave me.
That's when it hits me that you're afraid of me. You hide it well, usually only showing that you're hurt and you don't like being used the way that you are, but I've never seen fear in your eyes. I've never seen you in such a hurry to get away from me before. It's a new feeling that I'm not at all sure how to accept.
So I don't.
******
I'm walking back to the hotel now, since you took off with the car. Thanks. Not that I can honestly blame you, but it's a little tough walking the full half mile weighed down by both our gym bags in the sweltering mid-July Atlanta heat. I'm too cheap to pay for a cab, and I thought I could use the time to myself to figure out what I'm going to say in apology and what will be most likely to get us in bed.
Alright, so maybe it's not fair, but you know I love you.
I still smile every time I remember our first kiss. First real kiss, that is. I was sixteen, a mighty upper classman, while you were two years and as many grades below me, a lowly freshman. We had gym together during the last period of the day, and after the obligatory exercises, we spent most of our free time sliding around in our socks on the secondary basketball court and playing hockey with those stupid foam sticks and cardboard pucks. You always accused me of not playing fair, of encouraging my friends to pick on you, of not taking up for you like I should or of being too overprotective, of anything that seemed to be pissing you off at any given time.
One day you accused me of trying to steal your girlfriend. Never mind the fact she was a senior and only with you because she thought you were cute and slept with every guy she had a crush on, or that there was quite an age gap between the both of you. She was "your" girl, as you often put it, and I was to keep my hands and eyes off her. Ironically enough, just after you brought up that latest quarrel with me, she walked in the gym to get the shoes she'd forgotten, waved when she caught my eye, and then left just as quickly. You went completely nuts and, being you, threw the first punch.
Fighting with us was as natural as a cat licking its fur. What was so unusual about it was that you didn't pull your punch or try to soften the blow, but you aimed straight for my face, connecting my jaw with a strong right hook. I stumbled back a few steps, hand to my face, and that was it. Our hockey sticks, foam though they may have been, quickly became offensive weapons. When that lost its effectiveness, I lunged at you -- a spear, I guess you could say -- and took you to the ground. You screamed when your head hit the gym floor, and for a minute I was terrified that I'd really hurt you.
Then you looked up at me with that same look you still give me, all innocent anger and hurt and something I later identified as unrelenting lust. With me straddling you like I was, holding your wrists down to keep from being punched again, I was free to take a good look at you for what was metaphorically the first time. Your hair was shorter then, but still long enough to spill out behind you and fan about your head on the floor. Your eyes were still just as blue and piercing, capable of conveying a thousand different emotions and yet revealing none you wished to keep hidden. Your muscles were much more defined than I'd ever remembered seeing them, thanks to you letting yourself get dragged into my dream of becoming a wrestler. What I think tore it for me was the bloody gash just above your right eye. As a friend and brother my first instinct was to clean it up and apologize, but part of me was elated that I'd left my mark on you, claimed you as mine, made you realize you were still weaker than me.
Childish, yes, but whatever. You were beautiful and I wanted you more than I'd ever wanted anyone in my entire life.
So, stuck in that position with you wriggling underneath me in a desperate attempt to free yourself, I did the only thing I could really think to do -- I leaned down and kissed you. The look on your face was priceless. To this day I'm not sure if it was disgust or some dark passion you'd kept bottled inside for so very long. You fought it, but the more you did the more you had to move, and that was making you get hard from rubbing up so close against me. You eventually gave that up and, a few seconds later, your will to keep fighting. Inside, even while I was wondering what in the hell was wrong with me that I was kissing my younger brother, I was doing a little happy dance to feel you fall slack against the floor and stop struggling. It almost killed me when I felt your tongue slip into my mouth.
Needless to say, our fight didn't last that long.
We were always so close, much closer than other pairs of brothers we knew, it was amazing we never realized up until then that our feelings were more than just "the norm", so to speak. It's a connection unlike any other when you realize your love for someone else goes deeper than even blood. Revolting in a sense, sure, but nevertheless overwhelming. That brought about more than its share of fights with us. Gradually, though, they grew farther apart as we learned to live with each other's odd personal quirks and opinions, but those fights we did have were far more brutal than they'd ever been. Bruises formed, blood was shed, bridges were burnt, but it's what first got us into bed. I'd crawl up next to you in the middle of the night and stroke your cheek and apologize for hurting you, you'd accept and kiss me, and it was all passion and bliss from there on for the rest of the night.
I don't know if anyone else in the fed knows about us. I'm sure they have more than enough clues, but whether anyone has connected point A to point B yet is beyond me. You've always been horrified at the idea of anyone finding out how we spend so many of our private hours, sometimes just lying around holding each other and watching movies, other times making notches in the wall with the headboard of the bed. And, honestly, I don't think too many people would really give a damn if they *did* know the truth. We've beaten them all in one match or other, so I doubt very seriously they would ever bring it up. Through it all, for better or worse, we've always been there for each other and always guarded each other's back.
But you've never hit me back before with such force and so intent on hurting me, and it's that little sliver of doubt that leaves me shaking by the time I finally reach the hotel.
I'm just barely able to force myself in the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. Doubt after nagging doubt races through my head, convincing me I've pushed you too far this time and that you'll never speak to me again, that I should have quit while I was ahead and just recognized you as a gift to me and left it at that. But no, I've always had to test myself and others.
So I'm childish *and* stupid, I guess.
It's only by my slightly masochistic need to inflict more pain on myself than necessary that I force myself into the room on shaky legs. I curse myself inwardly for being such a coward, but I can't help it. I'm not afraid of you hurting me. I can take pain as well as deliver it, just that you never seem willing to take it out on me. It's the fear of what you'll say to me that makes me want to find you and hug you and promise never to lay another finger on you in anger again.
I drop our bags down by the door once it closes and follow the sound of running water. The bathroom door's open and I completely disregard all rights to privacy; this is more important. I push it open, startled momentarily by the blast of heat and steam that hits me directly in the face, enveloping me until I think I'm suffocating. I almost run back out the door, but I kick it closed behind me. I will stay and talk. I will. If I don't pass out from heat exhaustion, of course.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the stinging from the steam enough to see through it, and I can see that the shower door with the warped glass has been left open. It takes another moment before I realize that the red-skinned thing huddling in the floor of the bathtub is you, and it almost breaks my heart in two when I do. Your knees are drawn to your chest, arms around them and your forehead touching your kneecaps. I kneel by the tub and reach a hand in to touch your shoulder, hissing loudly when the scalding hot water touches my skin.
"Jesus," I whisper quietly, shutting the water off and immediately setting to work on pulling you out of the tub. The instant you feel me touch you, though, you jump up and land harshly against the far wall, staring at me like some sort of frightened, wounded prey. Part of me finds that alarmingly seductive, but for the most part I'm shocked. You've never pulled away from me like that before, and it twists something deep in my gut when I see the pure terror in your eyes, those eyes that have looked up at me so lovingly more often than not.
"Don't touch me," you warn, pushing the wet hair away that's plastered to your face. I start to reach out to help when you smack my hand away, making it hit painfully against the faucet. "Don't."
"Christian, I --"
"Why do you keep hurting me?" You ask it the same way a child would ask a parent why a beloved pet died, and it's enough to make me lean back to rest my full weight on my ankles. That sickened little ball in the pit of my stomach gets worse when it occurs to me that even while the water's stopped running, your cheeks are still growing increasingly wet and splotchy.
"You're crying. Chris, why're you --"
"Answer me, you son of a bitch!" you scream angrily, kicking out viciously. I narrowly avoid getting my hand pinned against the side of the tub and consequently broken. Though I want to make a smart remark about you having just insulted your own mother as well, I choke it back down; I don't need to give you another reason to kill me. You don't give me a chance, anyway. "Fucking *answer* me, Edge! Why is it fun for you to hurt me? It's like...like you get off on it or something! What, is that it?" you ask, firing off question after question without giving me time to answer any of them. "Do you beat me up and then go whack yourself off or something? Is that what you're about, you sick fuck?"
I am, to be completely honest, speechless. I've never seen you so angry or upset about anything, much less about me. Us. Not that I'm really given a chance to answer anyway. Before I can react you start clawing wildly at your arm, leaving frighteningly deep gashes in it with just your nails. You keep scratching while my mind tries to figure out what's happening, and by the time it registers, you've managed to open up a few small cuts.
"Hey, look, I'm bleeding now! Look!" You demand, holding the arm out for my inspection and then grabbing my shirt collar, pulling me roughly into the tub with you. We're immediately up against the shower wall and you're wrapping your arms and legs around me, keeping me tight against you. "I'm hurt. You wanna fuck me now? C'mon, let's go." You lace your hands in my hair and push your tongue forcefully into my mouth, and for a split second I want nothing more than to give in and let you get your frustration out. Then I hear you sob again while trying to keep your tears at bay and I pull back, rubbing my thumbs along your cheeks and tracing the paths your tears have left.
"I love you," I whisper in what I hope is a comforting tone. You shake your head and try to kiss me again, but I stop you and take your arm instead, raising it to my lips and kissing each of the individual cuts that have opened. "I love you, and I don't want you to hurt yourself. I don't want ... Christian, listen to me. I love you." I keep repeating that over and over again, but you don't seem to be listening. You just yank your arm back and double over, sobs twice as loud and violent now as they were when I found you.
Well, shit. I guess I *did* push you too far this time.
Not knowing what else to do for you when you won't let me do anything, I head back out into the main room and manage to pull my shoes and socks off before collapsing in my bed. I'm in that pleasant sleep-conscious state when I hear the bathroom door close softly, then your feet shuffling across the carpet. The blankets rustle, and I know that noise is you trying to slip into bed as quietly as you possibly can.
Here goes nothin'.
I give you a couple minutes to make yourself comfortable, then slide the covers back and crawl into bed behind you, touching my fingertips to your hips and lightly rubbing the waistband of your boxers. I lean down to rest my chin in the crook of your neck that adjoins to your shoulder, then pull a small part of your ear between my lips to get your attention.
"I love you."
You don't answer immediately, but I figure you're just still pissed at me. I can keep telling myself that, anyway. I get my answer when you curl in on yourself and move away from me.
"Why...why do you keep hurting me?" You ask again, voice so pitiful and quiet I almost break down crying at the sound of it. "I just...I don't understand."
You shift uneasily when you feel my arm loosen from around you, then look over your shoulder to see what I'm doing. "Chris, I . . . You can hit me if you want to. Hurt me, Christian. Just take it out on me for being such a prick to you."
I thought you'd appreciate that, but instead your eyes narrow in obvious disapproval. "Unlike you, Edge, I don't need to hurt you to prove that I love you." The comment is made with such venom and deep sadness I'm caught off guard and unable to reply. You take my temporary silence as a chance to keep going. "You're not going to kiss and make up this time. I love you more than life itself and you know that, but I can't keep going like this, man, I can't. We're not gonna just kiss and have sex and then wake up in the morning and pretend like everything's okay." You nudge me hard in the abdomen with your elbow, almost forcing me out of the bed. "Now get the fuck out of my bed, 'cause you're not getting your way tonight."
Dejected and ashamed, I trudge back to my bed with my proverbial tail between my legs. I'm aware of you breaking into tears again nearly as soon as my head hits the pillow, and I almost join you in crying when I realize that maybe I was only hurting myself all along.
But you'll come back to me. You always do.