Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.

Summary: Elricest, yaoi. What really happens when you confess it all, everything, ever little secret. And the reason why nobody ever does. But is that the real thing here? Is it?

Warnings: Rated for later angst and lemons. Elricest. Yumma no Edo-kun le angsty one. X3

s e l f – recrimination

shy himura

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Happens all the time, this lustful thing, this ghastly waste. Inside and outside, throughout and under and over and below, where the sun never shines and the shadows stalk you through narrow, binding tunnels. Where a man can get lost, get found, find God, and turn to more devious substances to ease every little pain that rips you apart from the inside.

Eat more, sleep less, study harder and feed the fuel inside, feed the fury and rage and impotent frustration and hand it to the first person that pisses you off. Make them suffer as you’ve been suffering, make them guilty with sorrow edged eyes, tear them apart with an accusing golden gaze.

How easy, it is, to make them all suffer. As you have suffered.

Deconstruct your life into little segments, bitter tongue lashing and drawing stripes on the volunteering skin. They might not have asked for your repulsion and disgust, but it’s still offered so fucking freely they have to take it, because it was so obvious. Don’t comfort me. Don’t become a target.

And then home again, home again, lickity split, where you find an empty apartment that an asshole who said he was your friend gave you. Stare out of the clouded, mouldy window as you start to replay every second you ever had with him. And then start to cry. You rock, like you were both rocked in those huge and comforting arms, you smiling up at him, and your other half gently asleep in your mothers arms,.

You smash that bloody window, and the torn glass shreds your fingers to pieces.

The water soothes it, unlike the tears, which burn.

Then there’s the utter complete joy of watching another useless day end, cursing the setting sun for representing the time that has passed from then to now. And you lie on the couch, pushing still-blooded fingertips at exposed nerves, mewling at unrespopnsive metal as you slowly crank up the agony in the limbs that were your payment and your pride. A slow, painful torture, one that you imagine is nothing compared to the utter heartache he must have experienced, finding your repulsive hands upon his tender skin. So pure, and unblemished, it hurt to see, let alone blemish with sullied fingertips.

That look in his eyes. Naked shame, terror, anger, frustration – and a dawning realisation that horrified him more than it could ever horrify you. You have years of experience at unnatural lust, at reaching for forbidden things with greedy hands…he, however, barely knew the mechanics of his newly made body, sculptured and smooth and so fucking perfect you had had had to touch it. Just to see. Just to fucking feel, and smell, and claim.

It wasn’t yours to claim, you fucking moron. And now he’s gone.

The books litter the carpet like a strange new breed of silverfish, more a danger to your balance than to any scurrying beetle that may have crawled in when you just didn’t care anymore. Dirty dishes on the sink. Cobwebs spinning silent dreams from the ceiling. The landlady said to clean up or clear out, but you feel so unclean yourself it’s hard to drag that broom across the floor, hard to lift the books and return them to their shelves. Hard to imagine living again, with the shame burning a coil through your guts, living empathy, unselfish hate.

Yourself. Hate yourself so bad. Can’t be as bad as he’s feeling. And where is he? Is he okay? Has he found a person that can support him without molesting him in his sleep?

And oh Gods, is he happier without you?

And then sleepless night, burning acidic pills on your tongue, burning the midnight oil until your whole body is on fire, feverish and dehydrated and sore. And then hallucinations, of a sort, waking dreams of bared skin and naked desires, of beguiling eyes and shining lips. Of him directing trembling hands to his rampart manhood, engulfing you in his scent, innocent and knowing and sinful.

And then you cry again, because you’re a fucking lonely moron. Sad and pathetic.

Then to bed, and to waking nightmares of being alone, of being hated and despised and unnatural and wrong, before the utter blankness of a tired Gate’s stare drags you away, away away away from thoughts of him.

And then it doesn’t hurt so bad.

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tbc…