Author's Note: This is a longer one. It took me a couple of hours to write, and I'm rather proud that I didn't stop. I have so many unfinished fanfics on my computer that don't have a true plot or an ending in sight. I'd like to think this one does.

It's written in a different form – two voices, one story. Since the summary says Nick and Ellis, I'll clue you in and say that italics are Ellis' thoughts while the regular type is Nick's. Did I make that noticeable enough? Lordy-lordy.

I wrote this story while listening to Love the Way You Lie by Rihanna ft. Eminem (so obviously it's part two of that song … specifically the piano version). One of the chorus' lines is embedded in the story, and the song is also used in the summary.

Oneshot. Tragedy/Angst. Nick/Ellis. Slash.

Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics that are in the song, nor do I own any of the amazing characters mentioned.

Acknowledgements: Thanks be to Amanda for reading this, as is always the case. Much love, darlin'. Also thanks to Sean for reading this and being confused. Don't be like him! Actually read the Author's Note and avoid the befuddlement. =\

Summary: On the first page of our story, our future seemed so bright, but even angels have their wicked schemes. It all comes down to standing here and watching what we've set on fire burn itself to the ground, leaving behind nothing but charred remains of our hearts.

One More War Won't Kill Anybody

If things had been different, maybe I wouldn't be standing here with my hands at my sides, the blood still dripping silently onto the cement floor. Maybe I wouldn't have done what I just did. Maybe … well, shit, it's too late for maybes. Maybe this and maybe that. Maybe none of this would've happened; maybe I wouldn't've met you. Maybe I wouldn't be where I am. Maybe I wouldn't've become who I am right now.

All you do is stare at me unblinkingly; your rich blue eyes are a startling, stark contrast to the blanched white of your skin. As I breathe with my mouth open, I can feel the hotness of my breath against my face as it disperses around the room. I can smell the whiskey in the vapor. All you do is stare. The fingernail marks on your cheeks stand out in the shadows, making them look deeper than they really are. Or maybe I'm trying to rid myself of the guilt that's slinking into my fuddled consciousness. However, I can't deny the droplets of blood – so bright and yet so dark; a color that movies can never get right; a consistency that is never correct in the blood 'n' guts action thrillers – oozing slowly from the lacerations. Your eyes – God, your pupils are huge in the slanted moonlight – are locked on mine, rigid and unmoving. I can see the disbelief and pure shock in your irises, right down to the little lines of deeper blue. I can always read your expressions, your tone of voice. Always.

If things had been different, maybe I wouldn't've spoken up. Maybe I would've let my feelings rest, despite how my resolve has been cracking since I first met you. If I hadn't trusted you with my life – with my heart,my everything – I wouldn't have said a word. Maybe everything would have turned out differently. No, I know for a fact that you and I would've ended up on different paths in our lives. Maybe the same one, but I doubt it wholeheartedly. Most likely we'd be going in different directions. That would definitely be better than this. Anything would be better than this.

Your eyes are bloodshot. Your nose is slightly red; you're flushed. From drinking, possibly, but it could also be from shame.

The pain in my cheek flares in and out, undulating, like a spring made taut and then let go. It's a fire one second and ice the next. I can already tell it's deep enough to worry about, and I have the feeling that I might be stitching myself up all alone in front of a cracked and grimy mirror in an empty room. Do I care?

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear an infected howling desolately into the heavy dusk. The clouds are nonexistent tonight, and if we were somewhere else – a different life, a different time – it would be a beautiful night with the stars glittering far above our heads. The only sound that comes from you is the familiar in and out of your breathing. The slight whistling as the air enters and exits through your long nose. Through an open window high up on the wall behind me, a slight breeze enters the safe house and rustles your brown hair beneath your tow-truck hat. I don't want to believe it – you never cry – but there's a tear rolling down your injured cheek. It lodges somewhere in the deep crevasse caused by my destructive fingernails.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the empty bottles that I'd been drinking from all afternoon and evening. I don't want to count the total, but a tally comes up before my eyes, hovering beside you. Seven. Seven drinks are what I paid to ruin everything that was left in my sorry excuse for a life. But who is reaping the consequences?

I want to say something. Something like, Are you happy now? Have you drunk away the responsibility you feel for Rochelle and Coach? Do you feel better now that you've killed another aspect of your life that was important to you? I hope you'll be able to sleep at night now, instead of burying your face into the white sleeves of your suit and trying to hold in the sobs you desperately want to release. Tears are identical to caged animals, do you know that? Caged, wild animals that don't understand what domestication is. They want to be out where they belong, on the outside. If they're kept cooped up for too long, their anger and hatred turns inward and they begin to attack whatever is keeping them from being free. There's relief in letting feelings out. Sometimes that relief is more anguish, more tears. Sometimes it isn't.

Yeah, you proved what happens when I tell the truth, when I let you know what I'm feeling.

Another tear joins the first one, and now there's a group of them cascading down your face. A regular river of heartache. I feel like I should try to explain myself, but I know nothing I can say will change what's happened, what's happening. I don't want to think it – God, I can't help myself – but I know I've lost you. Your eyes are telling me that. Your beautiful blue eyes are informing me that there's no going back, no way out. All I can think of are weak apologies, words that wouldn't come out right, wouldn't sound sincere. Maybe I'm afraid you'll spit at me, laugh at me, or worse just stare at me like you are doing now. Like you don't even know me. But you do know me – I call you "overalls" sometimes, and you say my name with that southern drawl that you have. Even in your sleep you still have your accent, and you smile when you say my name.

Your lips are trembling; you're losing the fight. Your jaw is clenched and your cheeks are moving in and out slightly as you battle for control. Your chin is scrunching up. You can't win. I wish I

I feel like I'm running out of breath. Like the longer I look at you, the more it feels like I've sprinted a mile or two. I don't even care about the cuts on my face; instead, I'm trying to deal with the sucker punches you figuratively doled out. My stomach muscles are contracting wildly, and I can't help what's happening to my facial muscles. I know there's no denying what's going on in my mind. I've never had a broken heart before, and I never even thought you'd break me like this. Rip me in two.

You used to be my hero. I can't say it in the present tense anymore. You always looked out for me; always had my back in case I needed you. Whenever I ran into trouble, you were there. You always were. You kept me alive just to do this to me? Lead me on to believe in the feelings you might've felt for me – those damn unsaid feelings that you and I never discussed until now. I can see why you never said a word, Nick. I can't help but think contradictory thoughts about all the courageous actions you performed for me. You're nothing more than a coward, afraid of yourself. There's a tremendous difference in doing something physically brave and doing something emotionally valiant. When it really mattered in this poker game of life, you folded without even taking a risk. You're a fucking coward even when there's no one left to judge you.

I decide to say something before I can't. Before my throat closes up on me.

"Are you happy now?" you choke out, a disgusted expression playing across your chapped, blistered lips.

How can you ask me such a thing? I once knew the thoughts that crossed your mind before you even mentioned them and now I don't know what you're thinking. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe people aren't meant to be so close to each other. The only achievement from love is pain. How did that song go? All I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. Yeah, that's it. Who am I in that song, I wonder. Well, I guess I'd be the one who outdrew you, Ellis.

Even though your face is shrouded in darkness, I can see the tightness behind your jaw and eyebrows. Somewhere deep within me, maybe down near my toes, I do hope you're happy. I've always wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me; even if hating me made you truly content, then I'll learn to live with it. Hell, I'll be miserable until I forget about you – if … if I ever forget about you – but that's a price I'd be willing to pay. How do people describe the sacrifice made by soldiers who died while struggling onwards through hell for someone else's freedom? To be frank, that's what I'd do for you. My life isn't worth anything to me without you in it.

I see you licking your lips, and I know you're going to speak.

"Ellis …"

All I can get out is your name. The disappointment that's emanating from you is vivid, tangible.

Through the fog that's threatening to overwhelm me, I see you take a few steps back, your nostrils flaring violently, and you drop to your knees. Your head is bowed – your hands are shaking – and you look as if you're waiting for an executioner to raise his axe and

I can barely keep my body within my grasp. Everything seems to be flying swiftly away from me: my self control, my thoughts, my hopes and dreams. Even my feelings have departed, leaving me bitter and shivering. The stubble on my jaw and cheeks pricks the flesh of my hands. I remember how you liked the feeling of my sandpapery face. I remember how you said one day I'd be able to grow a beard to be proud of. I remember how you'd laughed, how you'd grinned at me.

I know there won't be anything after this. No laughter, no smiles, no moving on. The salty tears are blazingly hot on my raw face. The sound of my own sobs are cacophonous in my ears and I wish for solitude. Alone with my agony, away from the cause. I wish

All I can do is stand there and listen to you cry. Vaguely, as if the memory isn't mine, I remember a time where you and I would fall asleep next to each other. Your head always wound up on my shoulder. I never minded, instead I welcomed it readily, my thighs always tingling at your touch. Did you know that kept me up at night sometimes? Just listening to you, reveling in the feeling of you beside me. Sometimes … sometimes I would hold your hand. I swear you woke up once. I caught you peeking at me from below the brim of your cap. I guarantee I witnessed a trace of a smile on your lips before you shut your eyes and sighed. You didn't move your hand, didn't pull away. I could be wrong – but God, God – I think you deliberately applied a slim amount of pressure to my palm.

I made a mistake. I'm always making mistakes. It's all I seem to do. Haven't you noticed that? Haven't you come to realize that I'm the reason Coach and Rochelle are dead before they really lived? If I hadn't – if I hadn't gone looking for those God damn bottles of whiskey, they never would've had to come save my ass. I wish you would've stopped them. I wish you would've told them that my life wasn't worth theirs. I wouldn't have taken it as an insult. Just think, Ellis, please. I'm smart enough to know that wandering off on my own is similar to a suicide mission. I knew that well. Maybe I'd been hoping to give up without you having to see me at my weakest. God, why?

I don't think you've moved. I can't fucking believe it – maybe I don't want to, maybe I just can't – but I'm sure you're just watching me cry my heart out. Do you hear the sound of that vital-to-life organ snapping and shattering, sending tendrils of anguish outward with every contraction? I didn't know that a person could experience so much torture without keeling over and dying. I feel as if I've lost the essential parts of myself, the best of me. The best in me was – is – always you. Fuck. I wish it isn't true. God, do I ever.

In amidst the sobs, I hear you whisper, "I'm sorry."

I can recall the exact expression you made when we first looked at each other. Your eyes lit up as you beamed at me. I was more guarded in how I responded to you. I didn't believe in love at first sight. It's complete bullshit. Sure, there may be lust at first sight, but surely not love. To tell the truth, I could tell that there was more in your happiness at meeting me than just finding another immune person. If you had told me that you fell in love with me at first sight, I wouldn't've doubted it. Your sincerity would've convinced me. I try to hold on to that rationality – that crazy, unexplainable rationality – but my head pounds, my vision is slightly blurry. I'm disoriented.

All I know is that I'm sorry. You couldn't possibly know how remorseful I am. I'd never laid hands on another human in my entire life. I'd never fought back when anyone tried to beat the shit out of me; I know that violence solves nothing. I want you to know that I also don't drink. God fucking damn. I'm laughing. You're no longer crying; you're just glaring at me. And I'm still chuckling.

Yeah, sure, you'd say. Out of the blue, sporadically, spontaneously, I chose to get pissed and hit you. I wouldn't believe it either, but it's true. Please …

I don't know what you're laughing about. By this time, I don't rightly care. Rage I didn't know I had is beginning to reach the surface, just like the lifeblood of a volcano. My fingers are tense as I eye you. From this distance, I could easily reach my sidearm and shoot you. Kill you and get the fuck out of here. Leave you for the rats. Yeah, would that make you happy? Having your skin chewed off and swallowed by long-tailed rodents? That's all you'd deserve. After all we've been through. After everything.

Three words set you off. Three words that you can't face. Three words you can't stomach coming from me. If I had breasts and curves, then shit, Nick. You'd be hitting that like the prick you are. Beautiful ladies for you, right?

Shit.

Maybe I would've responded differently if I hadn't been the direct cause – the indirect murderer – of two of my close comrades. Two people who were just trying to survive, two people who gave up their lives to save my worthless one. If I hadn't been drinking, maybe … no. No. I can't lie to myself. I'm a fucking coward. Even in the darkness of a safe house I can't admit to who I am. I can't admit that I love you. But God, do I ever.

You want to know why I chose to give up? Why I would rather be stomped to death by some infected than remain alive? Well, let me fill you in. I knew back then – just like I know now – that you won't be in my future. I would've rather died still having you care about me than continue living and have you forget who I am. What kind of a man am I?

Still on your knees, your blue eyes smoldering with fury, you softly say in a flat voice, "You're sorry."

I'm shaking my head, blinking away the wetness. I won't cry ever again. You've seen the last of my tears. Shit, so have I. Never again will I feel love or loss. I get to my feet, still shaking my head at you. A shiver of fear crosses your face in the darkness. You don't know what I'm doing. God, neither do I. All I know is that I – I can't live with this. I am twenty-three years old and I no longer want to live. A little young to be done with life, but what the hell. There's a first for everything. I've always had a zest for life, which was something I inherited from my ma, but that flame can be extinguished with the right breath of wind. Thanks, Nick. You are the perfect man for the job. The only man for the job.

My breath is coming in short gasps as I watch you straighten up. Are – are you actually, honest-to-God smiling at me? Not sneering or frowning or anything, but … smiling. You're lips are upturned a little bit, almost as in sadness, and it gives me the chills.

"I'm goin'," you say.

I raise my hands, palms up, showing no harm. I wouldn't – I'm sorry – I don't know what overtook me. Please. PLEASE.

You take a few unbalanced steps toward me and I can smell the liquor. It makes me nauseated. All I want is to get away from you. I see moisture at the corners of your eyes, but I doubt that it's tears. Probably just your bloodshot eyes leaking fluid. Maybe you'll be vomit soon and fall into a coma-like sleep, a deep one without dreams. You'll wake up tomorrow afternoon sometime with a killer headache and ask aloud, without opening your throbbing eyes, what happened. No one will answer you. I hope you'll be able to live with that unyielding guilt, and all the luck to you. This last death will be on your conscience for as long as you continue to draw breath.

One word escapes your mouth: "Please."

You laugh out loud. The sound is harsh, brittle, and I can hear desperation behind it. What have I done? I can't let you walk away and out of my life. I know you won't return. Even if you survive being outside, alone in the night with the infected, I'll never see you again. I'll find no trace of you. If you have to die, you'll do it off the beaten path so I'll always be wondering. I'll never receive any relief.

A twist of pain enters my chest and I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from crying out. You know that I love you. That's the thing, isn't it? Isn't it?

"I'm sorry I am the way I am!" you scream, taking another wobbly step toward me. Your hands are no longer held out in a harmless gesture. The hand with my skin underneath the fingernails is pointed at me, a little off centre of my face. I shake my head again and I turn

You turn your back on me. Those slender shoulders that I've memorized are the only part of you in the moonlight. Your head is bent forward. I see you reaching for a health kit. If I know you at all – maybe I don't, maybe I don't – you won't need it. You won't even use it. I also see you grabbing for your assault rifle. I don't notice you pocketing any ammo. I knew it. I fucking knew

I don't know why I take a health kit. There are four on the table; maybe it's habit. I don't know for sure. I'm guessing that I'll just toss it after I'm far enough away. I don't want to use it.

You still haven't said anything, and you're no longer moving. You're just … standing there, facing the table with the supplies on it, your back still in the moonlight. I've lowered my hand and I want to reach out and grab you, hold you here. Hug you or something, anything. I want to make this better, but I don't move.

"You aren' like this," you finally say in a clear, reverberating voice. You face me. Your expression is blank. "We all have fear. You don' think I was – am – scared t'be who I'm mean' to be? It's like you don' know me 't'all, Nick. Nah … you're jus' a fuckin' coward who'll never be able to accept himself. Tha's all." You repeat those last two words again as you shoulder your weapon and make for the door.

I hear you say my name again, and I know I shouldn't, but I do look over my shoulder. You're pointing your pistol at me, your hand jerking from side to side. You've moved toward me, and this time you're standing in the moonlight. Your face is nearly beet red; your teeth are bared. I know the safety is off on your gun. I don't believe that you could kill me with one shot. It might take a few. You might take pleasure from that, you might like the way my body convulses as the bullets enter into my head. Maybe. But more likely than not, you'd just turn the weapon on yourself shortly after disposing of me. There would be no more happiness in the world for you. I'm right, aren't I?

No flicker of fear passes across your features as you turn to stare at the muzzle of my pistol. I shuffle forward and now the barrel is a few inches away from your nose. I'm surprised I can hold the gun steady. There is a deadness in your eyes that I can't look away from. I want to shoot you. I want you to take your own gun and shoot me first. God, please. There will be no happy ending.

Instead of fighting me for my weapon, instead of telling me not to do anything stupid, instead of challenging me to shoot the man I love, you shake your head. I've seen you disappointed numerous times, Ellis, but never this many.

I know you won't actually pull the trigger, and shit, if you do, what do I care? My intent is to leave and die in a way I see fit. You didn't witness it, but I picked up one bullet. One. Think you can figure out what I'll do with it?

My finger twitches on the trigger as I see you take a deep breath and move toward the door. My hands go clammy; a thin sheen of sweat spreads across my entire body. No – NO, please

I unlock the safe house door. I don't look back as I leave. I keep my shoulders straight, my head up. I'll keep my eyes peeled for a dark room to kill myself in later, but not now. Not within view of the safe house door.

When I'm about one hundred feet away, I hear you call out those three words.

"I love you."

You don't even falter. The strap of your overalls swings in time with your legs. I see you turn around a corner.

Two hundred feet. I'm still going. God, my heart is beating so hard against my ribcage. My eyes are blurring; it's getting difficult to see. I'm relying on my ears more than anything. Every time I hear my own footsteps, my body twitches slightly, thinking that an infected is close by. My mind doesn't understand that I truly am all alone now.

I jump when I hear the gun shot, but I still don't turn around.