Title: Mistake
Author: Lily
Archive: fanfiction.net under Lily1130 (no spaces), anywhere else, just ask...
Pairing: 1x2
Categories: angst, yaoi, lemon (not NCS, but close)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, insanity, self-inflicted violence, lemon, references to NCS, language
Spoilers: none
Notes: *italics* Duo POV
Disclaimer: I do not own the g-boys.
Feedback: Hungry Bob loves to eat up positive comments! Throw snacks at him and he throws fic ideas at me. send to: ann_marie_martino@ emerson.edu


It's a mistake, I think for the thousandth time. I'm perched here, at the edge of his life, and he's asking me to join him. He wants me to go toppling into his perfect little world. I guess, I guess I will. Haven't got anything better to do.

It's a mistake, I think, as he calmly informs me he's fallen in love. He doesn't say with who. I jump up from my place at the dinner table, and start screaming. I can't help it. My whole body is just filled with the screams waiting to come out. There aren't any tears, I don't usually cry. I fought a war, I faced death every day of my life, and I wasn't scared. Hell, I *am* Death, if you believe those rants I made during the war.

Just one big mistake, I think, when he gets up from his chair, not a single movement spared. When he reaches me, he draws back his fist and sends it crashing into my mouth. The screams halt, and the whole house is silent. There isn't even the hum of the refrigerator to break the sounds of blood falling to the floor. He has split my lip through, and I can only watch as the bright crimson doplets decorate the carpet.

His eyes have gone cold again, there's blood on his fist. There is no expression on his face, not that I expected one. He didn't ask me to live with him because he loves me. In my body I am trembling. It feels as if my insides are trying to go for a jog without me. He cocks his head, the barest flicker of *something* shadowing his face, then turns his back on me, and sits back down at the table. He begins to eat. I know what this means.

I take my place at the table again, moving as though the room is filled with ice water. My body stings all over from the real punch, the one he made without even moving. My insides are still reeling from when he so gracefully sat down again. I press a napkin to my face, and the blood stops, not much of an injury, really. I've borne so much worse when I was still fighting. I mechanically put the food into my mouth, chew, and swallow. This takes no effort, not really. The screaming pieces of my body have been forced back down into my stomach again, and I feel as if I'm fine, as if the knives don't continue to prick me here and there.

He finishes his dinner and clears the table, washes the dishes, and I assist him. There are no words spoken, not that there ever are. He loads the dishwasher and takes my hand, silently, and pulls me to the bedroom. Before bed, every night, he takes me. It cannot be called rape, oh, no. He is so very careful, and gentle, tender even. He rubs his calloused war-roughened hands down over my back, loosening the knots that have taken up residence there. He uses lube, and liberally, spreading it around my entrance and all over himself. He fucks me silently, not a word escaping his lips. The most I ever hear is a small breathy sigh when he finally comes.

He pumps in and out of my body, and my mouth is sewn shut. I haven't spoken - *really* spoken - in a year. Not since I moved into this little house that he calls home. I call it safe. At least here no one is going to kill me. Anyway, not a noise creeps from me, even though inside my skin is positively twanging with tension. I can feel my entire body talking, deep in me, and I refuse to let it out, not this time. In my head I can feel myself begin to cry as something snaps within me. But without him I would be lost.

It's a mistake, I seethe at myself, behind my swollen, cut lip. He is thrusting in, out, in, out...it's like a dance we have perfected. I raise my ass to meet his thrust, he runs a finger over my spine. I tell myself that I enjoy this. He is so kind to me, even in this. It doesn't hurt, not at all, not physically anyway. I don't think he could understand it if I tried to tell him that I was hurting. That makes no sense to him.

Battles flash by, my eyelids become little movie screens as he takes me. My eyes are shut, they're always closed, even though my head is pressed sideways into the pillow. My mouth is half-open, but he will not kiss me. He never has. The silence is getting so loud it's rushing in my ears. With that little, contented sigh he releases into my willing body, and pulls out. His hand passes down the slope of my back in a clumsy caress. I can feel his hands as they remove the elastic from my braid. He reaches over me, to the bureau, and grabs the silver-handled hairbrush. The one that he bought me for Christmas. I don't even *like* the color silver...

It's a mistake, this kindness, as he draws the brush through my long, long hair. I used to love that hair, so much, but not anymore. He has defiled it with his indifference, just like everything else. He rebraids it gently, and then lies down beside me, and closes his eyes. When I open mine I am looking into his eyelids, the lashes a sharp imprint on the high curve of his cheekbone. But he doesn't see me, examining the color of his hair and the slope of his smooth, muscled shoulder.

I can feel the wildness building up in me again, and I climb so reverantly over his body. It's amazing, really, how I can get over him without touching him, without succumbing to the sensations bubbling around in my chest. I stumble to the bathroom, and glare at my reflection in the mirror. Is there anything left of me? I can still remember the rough hands that tore at my body, that split the flesh of my ass, the leers and the laughter, and I don't even know if it's real. I don't even know *what* is real any longer. My naked body is getting more slender, because no longer can I seem to eat. It's not deliberate, no, but when I get into the bathroom, and I look at the face, those dark bruised eyes, I feel the sickness explode within me. I pull on the clothes that I had left on the hook behind the bathroom door.

Throwing up is loud, and the house is filled with nothing but silence. He makes no noise when he sleeps, nor does he move. He would wake instantly if I made even so much as the slightest sound. A sigh buries itself in my throat, stifled. I creep down the stairs, down through the kitchen, and I slide open the well-oiled window. In a matter of seconds I have landed on the damp grass, and then I'm running, free.

When I've gotten far from the house, I finally stop, and heave, and my dinner paints the grass below me. I am wearing shorts, and my knees are gathering the green color, and bits and blades of grass cling to me as I stagger to my feet. It's not over, not yet. I'm running again, the screams sliding down my throat with strangled gasps as I struggle to bury them where they belong. But it's too much, just as it always is, and suddenly I've ceased again, and I am screaming. Screaming so loud that I could wake the dead - all those souls I've sent to Hell...

He comes to the police station to get me, not surprised to discover that I had escaped again. My hair is full of brambles, my knees are scraped, but I smile cheerfully. I don't say a word, however. My secrets are mine and mine alone. He gives the money to the police officer to release me, informing the man in a cold, flat voice that I am *not* drunk, just a little confused. Then he turns and walks out of the station, knowing that I will follow. Just once I'd like to remain behind, see how long it takes him to realize I'm not there. But I climb down off the counter and follow, my braid dusting my thighs as I do so, and I know the cop is watching, wondering what the hell kind of enigma *I* am. I did not say a word to him, either. Last year, he asked to me to live with him, but he told me I had to shut up. Not a single word has passed my lips since I nodded my head, once, in agreement.

In fact, I haven't made even a sound - grunt, giggle, anything - since that day, until last night, when the screams finally ripped themselves from my body. He unlocks the door, motions me inside, a low growl in the back of his throat. I know he is not happy. He has gotten tired of me running at night, getting picked up by the police. Even Quatre is sick of lending him the money to bail me out. I shrug, it's nothing, I say without speaking. He shakes his head, asking me questions, but even the words boiling forth never pass my lips. Only a small smirk that has claimed my mouth. Finally, he throws up his hands, a gesture of frustration, and leaves me standing in the middle of the living room floor.

I am actually stunned by his action. He has shown emotion, he has acted in a way different than normally. My knees give out without warning and I crumple to the floor, and again, they come rushing forward, and I'm screaming, unearthly wails that sound like the keening cries of those I killed. The war is beating a drum solo on my head, and my legs are scraped with blood, and I can feel the warmth of it swelling over my body, the coppery tang clinging to my nose and whispering down my throat. Heero does not come back downstairs right away. My head as fallen against the hardwood, and sharp bits of light - like pieces of glass - are flickering behind my eyelids. I feel as though something is being plunged repeatedly into my brain, but all I can hear is that sad wailing, interpersed with short shrieks of pain.

It was all a mistake, I know he didn't mean it.

But now I'm lying here and I can no longer silence the angry beings shouldering their way out of my body. I rip off my clothes down to my boxers, simple things really. A plaid pattern covers them, a blue-and-red-and-green plaid, Heero's favorite pair of mine, the ones that he loves me to wear. Someone's fists are beating down on my body like the sun on a hot day, and fingernails are gouging flesh from my ribcage. It takes only a minute beofre I realize that there is skin beneath my fingernails - *my* skin. And then everything began to go grey, and the awful sounds cut off, and there is a ringing in my ears. The whole world begins to take on that grey color, and I can see the light of my scythe as it sends another human being - OZie or not - to Hell. Then consciousness finally eludes me.