Author's Note: Another short fic, this time written in Ellis' POV. It's hard to think of Ellis without making him sound like a backwoods baby, but ah well. Pretty hoary language ahead, hence the rating. One last note: feelings are confusing. That is all. =)

Oneshot. Angst/Drama. Slash. Nick/Ellis. Ellis' POV. Language warning.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Ellis … I'd turn him straight, but alas! I own no one mentioned. Thanks to Amanda for reading this and editing it, and a thank you to Sean for doing the same.

Acknowledgements: Lifehouse, I love you. You're an amazing band.

Summary: You said it, I get it; I guess it is what it is. I should've just kept my mouth shut.

It Is What It Is

I gave you my all. Told you everything. Tried to make it work, tried to make you understand. I know you get it, too – that you feel the same way. Too bad you're too much of a fucking coward to tell me the truth. Instead, all that comes out of your lying mouth is "I'm not a fag."

A fag. Is that all I am now?

I don't believe you truly think that. Hours after we had our discussion – more like you swearing your head off at me – I saw the redness of your eyes, the hastily-wiped-away tear tracts that had stained your cheeks. You tried to hide it from me, but it didn't work, Nick. I saw.

You're such a liar. You don't deserve me. And yet, I can't stop loving you, can't stop thinking about you. Too bad it's just you and I trapped here in this safe house. Too bad, because now we can't ignore each other. Or I guess it's just me who can't ignore you … you and your green eyes that keep giving me that God damn look! Like inside your head you're calling me all those gay words.

Well fuck you. If I could do anything right now, I'd shoot you on the spot. I'd scream at you. Yell all the cuss words that my ma would try to get me to stop saying. I almost smile as I sit with my back to the wall, because inside my mind I can see her chasing me around the house, a bar of strawberry-scented soap in her weathered hands. I shake my head and my blue eyes land on you once again.

You sleeping with your back to me.

Yeah, I get it, okay? You've turned your back on me. Everyone has. Shit, I've turned my back on me too. I want to think that I'm just a fag, that I should just give up on life, like you told me to because it's easier to just admit that you're right than fight against it.

Fuck, Nick. How could you have said that to me?

My heart broke the day the infection hit Savannah. When I had to kill my own mother to save my skin. And the neighbors too, including their youngest daughter. She was just four years old, yet her face had been changed into something monstrous, something unrecognizable. I could see the intent to kill hiding behind her once innocent brown eyes.

I'll never forgive myself for what I did. Never. I know that when I met up with Coach, Rochelle, and Nick, I was okay. I'd adjusted, which is something I'm good at, and seemed excited about what was happening to the world. Maybe that's because the people – infected, not people – I'd been shooting hadn't been family members or neighbors. Or children.

Has anyone else noticed that we only ever kill adults? Were all the kids evacuated somehow? Well … every kid except for Chelsea. I guess I'd helped her escape in the end, helped her get out of this shitty world. Four years old and her life was over.

I once believed in God. My ma took me to church every Sunday, and then I'd spend the rest of the day at home, working on her old pickup truck or watching TV with her in that shabby living room that she loved so much. I believed heavily. I knew that I was where I was meant to be – I felt happy with everything, even God.

Those happy feelings are long gone. The infection ruined a lot of things for me, or maybe my faith hadn't been as strong as I figured.

Meeting Nick helped to heal the hole in my heart. I don't know how he did it, and I'm not willing to question a good thing, but somehow he did. I won't ever forget my ma or Chelsea, but he helped me to realize that they were gone, beyond helping. They weren't the people I'd once known.

I guess Nick wasn't the person I'd known, either. I guess I didn't know him as well as I reckoned, because I'd never thought he was capable of trying to make me hate everything about myself.

My ma had accepted me for who I was; she was the one who told me that God made me like this, that He loved me and so would she. She told me that I'd meet someone someday, and I'd be happy with him, with myself. She made me believe that I wasn't a waste of a life because I was gay, despite how terrible the rest of the world treats homosexuals. My ma made me accept who I was, even if I didn't love my sexual orientation.

How could Nick reverse everything that she'd worked hard for?

I'm so fucked up in the head right now. I want to keep living my life, yet I want to end it all, too. Does this make any sense? At all? 'Cause I don't fucking get it. For nearly the entire time I'd been with that bastard in the white suit, he'd been my reason for living. Him. The fag-hater.

Nick, I hope you never find happiness with a woman. And trust me, you won't. Want to know why? Because you're gay too. I'm not fucking stupid. No matter how many times you call me a dumb shit, it doesn't matter – I can't forget the way you used to look at me, how you used to make every excuse to accidentally brush up against me.

Nick, you were the main person who helped me off the floor, the person who healed me when I needed it. And you think you can tell me you feel nothing? At least you're good for a laugh, Nick. Thanks for that.

I really want to stand up and kick you in the back right now. Leave a big, black boot print on your stupid white suit. That God damn suit that you love so much. Yeah, let's go around destroying everything important to each other, okay? You got a head start, though, and there's nothing I can do to you to make you feel the pain I'm going through. All because of what you said.

It's like my heart's folding in on itself, like someone is squeezing it in an iron grip, giving me no relief. It feels like I don't have a stomach – it seems to have just dropped out of my body. My mind's just a whirlwind of agony. My face keeps trying to crumple up and give in to the ache in my throat, but I won't let it. I have no appetite; I'm not thirsty. Even my fingertips feel heavy, weighted down. Pulled towards the earth with the realization that you don't give a damn.

You won't see me cry. I won't let you see what you've done to me. I'm stronger than that. Stronger than you. I've accepted who I am, and you haven't. I can live with myself, even if at times I don't like who I am. I doubt you'll ever be able to reconcile yourself to who you are deep down.

Fine, Nick. If we ever make it out of this alive, I'll never speak to you again. You'll have no more reason to deal with the fag. And you'll realize all that you missed – all that you lost. I know you love me. I know that you've loved me since we got out of Savannah. We used to sleep side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder every night. You would lean your head on me, and sometimes your hand would come to rest beside mine, our pinkies touching.

And you tell me that that means nothing?

I want to run out of the safe house and let the infected have me. I can't take this anymore, this unbearable silence. I want to make you say something, anything. I don't care – call me a fag again, just say something. I need to hear your voice …

I'm sorry, Ma. You used to tell me to hold my head up high, and now it's lower than ever before. I'm pathetic, worse than pathetic. Inside my heart, I know I don't want to live anymore.

Nick, you're everything to me. I'd give up everything for you, like my car 'n' truck repair shop, my friendship with Keith (if he's still alive), and even my hat. My fuckin' hat, Nick. Yet you wouldn't give a shit.

No. I'm just a fag to you.

Yeah, well guess what? You're gay too. A closeted one.

You made me a better person. You made me feel safe. You made me believe that everything would be okay one day, without saying a word. Just being beside you made me feel okay.

The urge to cry overwhelms me again as I sit listlessly in the bright moonlight filtering in through the window, and I dig my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palms. I won't give in.

I hope you get eaten by a really ugly infected, Nick. I fucking hate you, and I can't wait to get away from you for good. And somehow, I still love you. I love you more than anything.

So, really, fuck me. Fuck me for loving you. Fuck me for thinking that you would tell me that you loved me back.