A/N: So it's been a while since I have uploaded anything, and for a good reason I guess. I decided it was time to write a new fanfiction for my newest OTP; Tavros and Gamzee from Homestuck. I haven't read it all, but I know the comic inside and out. I'm a bit nervous uploading this, but my friends suggested I should so...!

Summary: Tavros is a disabled teenager who is succumbed to bullying and has terrible self-confidence. It's only when he meets a strange boy named Gamzee Makara that his life begins to, maybe, take a turn for the better. AU, yaoi, rated M for cursing (it's Gamzee guise) and sexual content.

Pairing: Gamzee/Tavros

Rated: M

Warnings: This will contain male on male sexual content.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. They belong to God- I mean Satan- I mean Hussie.

Chapter notes: I'm sorry if this sounds.. dark or angst-y? It's mostly just a prologue or opening rather than the first actual chapter.

At Fault: Chapter 1

The first day he was in a wheelchair seemed to be the end of his rather short life. Figuratively, of course. His sort of life lead up until that point had been rather affectionate and active. He had always been a vivid and positive child, always looking on the bright side of things, even when times were a bit tough. He tended to have an influence on the people around him as well, obliquely changing their minds over many different things. He always had intense, yellow-ish eyes the captivated those around him and a large smile that caused adults to gush. Even at such a young age he felt it was his job to make these people happy. Anybody he cared about was his top priority, even though this revolution wasn't always conscience. It was just natural for him. He was the same towards his cousins and friends and aunts and uncles. His entire family he made sure was always safe and happy, because nothing meant more to him.

They were there for him too as well. He remembered when he would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping, sometimes drenched with sweat and screaming about the monsters. He could never recall what they looked like after he woke up he just knew it was terrible. It would make him cry. His parents would be there in an instant, hugging him close and patting his short hair. They whispered words of comfort until his breathing was back to normal, and he was convinced the monsters that inundated his mind were nothing but fantasy. Sometimes it got bad though, he'd always had a dark subconscious that he simply couldn't help, and one day his mother came home with the strangest stuffed animal of a bull with wings, It was white as the snow that fell in the winter, and as soft as a cloud looked. That night he hugged it and no nightmares plagued his dreams. He was terror-free until morning. He decided then to name this new plush of his Tinkerbull. It rarely left his sight after his mother gave it to him, and it slept in his grasp each night.

When his mother had what she called a 'miscarriage' when he was six, he did not understand what it meant back then. Only that his mom would stay up late into the night and cry with his father at her side. One night he had shuffled nervously over to her, awoken by her and Dad's sobs. He was picked up into her lap, and he carefully hugged her around the neck and pressed his nose into her neck. He always used to love the lingering smell of her makeup and perfume and Dad. He felt her and Dad's arms around him, and he let out a hushed whimper: 'I do not like seeing Mommy sad…'

She seemed to be better after that, if only a bit solemn. She also explained what it meant to have a miscarriage- how she was going to have another child but it died before it could live. He was a smart boy, but he still quite didn't understand. He only had known he needed to care for her and made sure she was happy.

Not long after the miscarriage she was fine and happy once more. Nothing thrilled him more than when she walked through the door one day with that toothy grin and obvious dimples. He was curious at the sudden change in mood, and once caught a quick bit of a conversation they were having in private. His mother was 'pregnant' apparently. Her tone had been hushed, and brimming with emotion. He was confused what this meant, and when he heard crying he burst into the room and began wailing and shoving Tinkerbull into his mother's arms and tried to assure her everything would be alright. She had taken it in her arms, and his father picked his son up. Together they explained that he would have a sibling; a little brother or sister to play with. He had been overjoyed at this, and spent the week bouncing around the house and singing about how he was going to have a playmate! His mother and father smiled for him. He was showing no sign of hate or envy towards the thought of another child taking their attention. They were lucky to have such a kind, strong, healthy boy.

He was only seven when it happened. It shouldn't have happened either; it was simply an accident of asking if, on the way home from aunt's house (he and his parents had spent the afternoon there), that they stop for dinner at McDonalds. He wasn't a child to make trouble, but he reallywanted the new toys they were offering with the kid's meal. After much begging to his parents, his mother, who saw nothing wrong with the prospect really, gave into her son's wish. She had hastily shifted lanes so she could get off on the right exit. But if only, if only, the young boy had known. He didn't need a toy or a meal, he really didn't but he didn't know what would happen, it didn't even cross his mind. He thought he was safe, he thought his parents were safe, he thought the world was a safe place and nothing bad could happen.

So when there was a hOnK and the screeching of tires, his ears were filled with desperate screams made by his mother and father, and maybe even himself. His view out his window was nothing but a huge trunk swerving out of control and right for them. The driver's terrified face was the last thing he consciously noticed before everything hurt. It was dark, and something felt very hot; maybe it was something on fire, or the friction of metals colliding. There was a lot of wailing and yelling. The stink of blood and smoke, and burnt flesh and skin filled the smoky air. He could hear distant anguished calls of his father, and he wanted to reach out for him, to comfort his dear father from whatever was ailing him but he couldn't. He couldn't move. Blood everywhere, so much of it. His arms hurt, his torso ached, his head throbbed, but worst of all;

His legs felt invisible.

Unfortunately that wasn't the worst of all. He woke up in a hospital bed who knows how long later. He'd lost a lot of blood, and he had many bruises and cuts. His chest hurt, and his head was still throbbing. Generally all around he felt terrible. But one thing he had remembered was not feeling his legs. They felt… They felt as if they weren't there. There was a tingling in his upper legs but that was the extent of it. Curious, he had removed the covers of the small bed he had been placed in and recoiled with a screech. His legs were gone. There was nothing but nubs about halfway down to the knee. Just empty air, no skin or bone or muscle.

He screamed again and began crying. The tears flowed as he struggled to get away from his own legs, or rather the emptiness that had once been occupied by them. He ended up on the floor, tricked by the illusion that he still had functioning legs. He let out another scream as the nubs ground against the floor like deadweight. It hurt terribly, and he kept wailing for help all the while sobbing like the pitiful child he was. It was a long time before a nurse came rushing in.

Once she put him back in bed and re-bandaged his legs (since he caused one of his leg nubs to bleed again from the fall) his father came in into the whitewashed room. His expression was solemn at first but as his eyes landed on him they became expressionless.

"Daddy…?" he managed to hiccup between convulsing sobs. He was confused and hurt and wanted his mother as well. "My legs- they aren't there!" he shouted, "where's mommy? I have not seen her!"

"…Tavros." He had went to his son's bed, but didn't make a move further, even when Tavros instinctively reached out his arms in the hopes of a comforting hug. He blinked. Slowly. "Tavros your mother is dead."

"Mr. Nitram…!" the nurse who had been tending to Tavros had gasped, "The doctor told you not to be so sudden about telling the poor boy!" It had been obvious from her voice she'd known and pitied both of them greatly. "You probably just sent him into deeper shock."

Tavros hadn't heard his father's reply. His blood was roaring in his ears; he could feel his own heartbeat in his head; his tears were streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks and quickly reddening his pale skin. He couldn't even control the pitiful sobbing that followed. He'd only realized his life came crashing down. His mother was… was… He was wailing, but he couldn't hear himself. The nurse was probably hugging him by now as he cried and cried and cried…

From then on his life really had come to a halt. It seemed from then that everything fell. After his mother's funeral his father decided to move away from the small town they had lived in for so long. Tavros sat silently in the car as they drove past the cemetery on their way out of the town for the last time; he could see his father gaze out at the gravestones pensively. It was one of the last times Tavros had ever seen his father look so emotional. Tavros had reached out to his father, but his hand was pushed away. His comfort wasn't needed, or rather, wasn't welcomed. He was so used to being there for his father and his mother, only wishing for their happiness, but it wasn't like that anymore.

Tavros started a new school in a new city. He was a handicap now, with a wheelchair and all. It was impossible to not notice the way he had been stared at. He hadn't missed the other student's rude comments or sneers or their evident fear. Sometimes he was called nicknames too. The other children were often too afraid to confront him and his strange machine. For many of the children, people in wheelchairs were a rare sight. It took many months for him to be asked about his wheelchair by another student.

"Why do you roll around in that thing anyway?" He had remembered being asked that question one afternoon on the school playground. A group of boys from another class had gotten up enough courage to ask. The leader looking one who asked looked generally curious, but with a sort of guarded expression.

"I… I c-can't walk." He stammered. He didn't talk much those days, not to his father or to anybody at school. He was developing a stutter that only got worse. He had always had a bit of a stammer in his words back before his mother died, but it wasn't too obvious back then. Now it was, however; it developed more lately because of his lowering self-confidence (and the way the child were watching him didn't help.)

"Why? You have legs." The other boy glanced at his pant legs. Tavros had worn long pants so it appeared he at least had legs. Who would want to see his ugly, nubs anyway?

"I… well… I still can't walk." Tavros had replied to the boy. Before the other child had replied however, there was a scream when one of them had poked Tavros's 'leg' and realized there was nothing inside the veil of fabric. Tavros didn't have time to protest before the boy lifted his pant leg up only to see empty air.

"HE HAS NO LEG!" he had screamed. The other boys looked panicked and began to run away.

Tavros remembered them shouting the word freak as they raced away across the playground.

…Freak…

When he got home from school that day he rolled up to him and tipped his head, "Dad?"

"Hm?" His father replied gravely, not looking up from some documents he was reading for work.

"Am I freak?" His voice was so indignant. He was fighting tears.

"Anybody who kills their mother is a freak, Tavros," was his simple reply. It was said in such a plain manner, as if the fact he said something that would normally be unacceptable to say to your child.

Tavros cried himself to sleep that night, Tinkerbull tightly held between his fingers. It seemed from that time on his father reminded him frequently that it was his fault his mother died; if he hadn't asked for that forsaken toy like a 'spoiled rotten child' none of this would have happened. Tavros suspected his father was just hurt but… after hearing it for about 100 times it just sunk in.

It was his fault his mother died. It was his fault he lost his legs. And it was his fault his father was hurting so terribly.

He had gone through life believing that. Years passed and he had long since grown used to using his wheelchair. He'd forgotten what it was like to have legs, and the thought of having them… well, was silly. He guessed he'd grown so used to not having legs that he wouldn't be able to adapt if he'd somehow gotten new legs. Not that he ever COULD get new legs; prosthetics were too expensive and there was no way his father would 'waste' the money on him. They were stuck as nubs.

For years he was reminded just how much of a disability they were He tried not to believe the terrible words thrown at him- "freak" or "robot" etc, etc. The nicknames that had scarred him in elementary school had chased him into middle school. It had become the norm for him, but that didn't mean he wasn't hurt. Despite it, he did his best to keep a small smile on his face. After all he was alive, right? At least he could still go on living even if his mother didn't.

Often he found himself isolated in his room and playing his online roleplaying games and card games. Despite not having any friends in real life, he had a small selection of friends on the computer. Granted, one backstabbed him terribly and left him with even fewer friends. He preferred his online friends anyway, even though they knew he was paraplegic most of them treated him fine. A few were a bit sour, but he tried not to let it bother him. Whenever he couldn't be in his room he was in the library reading fantasy books. He had a fascination with the fictional world. It was in them he could imagine he flights through fantasy and fight various beasts not found in the conscience world.

At times when his sanctuary of the modest school library was interrupted by some bored kids looking for something to do he usually left right then before they could tease him. Sometimes it was too late though, and he'd end up face-first on the ground because they tipped him out of his chair and dumped the contents of his book-bag around him. Other times they would take his books and put it on the highest shelves so he couldn't reach them. Anytime this happened, he did his best to fight back any tears and just appear unaffected. It didn't always work though, especially having them mock him endlessly.

It wasn't even about his wheelchair anymore. It was just years and years of pointless discrimination for things he couldn't control. His stutter, the fact he was a social outcast, the fact that he had a Mohawk which was 'outdated' and a 'fashion disaster', the fact he didn't have a girlfriend also brought up rumors of him being a 'faggot', oh and he was generally just an all around awkward guy. He didn't mind, or at least made sure to look like he didn't. He just took it all until the kids got bored for the time being and left him alone.

It was 8th grade when he met his first friend. It had been rather unexpected; a strange young girl transferred into one of his classes. She had short black hair and wore a cat hat always. She dressed sort of… overly warm, especially for the time of year; she had been decked out in a thick coat and gloves, and of course the previously mentioned cat hat. She had looked fun for the most part, however. When she had come over to sit next to him though, he felt a little nervous. He offered her a polite smile at the least so he wouldn't make yet another enemy.

He had been surprised when they seemed to just click and she began reeling out words. A lot of words. So many words that Tavros sometimes felt overwhelmed. Despite the sheer amount she talked though, Tavros felt fine around her. In fact he had preferred it that way since he'd never been one much for talking to people he didn't know well. He was fine just listening.

Her name was Nepeta Leijon, and probably one of the nicest people Tavros had ever met. Her best friend- Equius Zahhak- was the hugest person Tavros laid eyes on. He was frightening and rather intimidating at first, but Equius treated him with a quiet respect for the soul reason that Nepeta favored Tavros so much. Tavros however noticed the increased discrimination Nepeta was getting for hanging around the social outcast. One day he asked her about it, and she just smiled and said, "If they don't like me hanging out with you that's THEIR problem! You're kind and purr-fect the way you are."

Nepeta was the only thing really keeping Tavros sane it seemed. He did his best to act cheerful most of the time, but it was difficult. He'd never once thought about suicide, but… what was the point if we would just be subjected to this all the time?

By 11th grade Nepeta and Tavros had no classes together. They only saw each other before or after school and a few times during passing if timing happened to be right. This certainly didn't help Tavros- Nepeta and Equius had defended him against the bullies and the sneers and stares he got in the hallways as he carefully rode to class. He was mostly ignored now though, only when another teenager will be bored or Tavros happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time would they do something bad to him.

Only that something was usually a lot worse than the taunts and occasional physical abuse from earlier grades. Like putting super-adhesive in the parts of his wheelchair, or blocking ramps and making him repeatedly late to class so his grade would lower. They would take his bag and hold it high above his head while snickering. Some people defended him out of sympathy, but most of that pity was lost back in elementary school. He was a social outcast- both at school and at home. His father never let up with the accusation. He reminded his son at least several times a week how it was his fault his mother died. Tavros had grown used to it. Each day passed slowly, and with each day he grew more solemn. He almost never saw Nepeta, which upset him far more than she could know. He relied on her for sanity purposes. His stutter, which had very slowly been disappearing since he met Nepeta, was back within a month of not speaking to her on a normal basis. He'd always been the nervous type, even around Nepeta, but that too came full on after only a month. He did his best to get by day by day in his wheelchair and his isolation, and sometimes the memories were comforting things, but it was never enough.