***

Title: His
Author: Lizzie
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating: I'd go with R this time. With severe warnings. Don't read this if anything mentioned in the bit below this is likely to offend/disturb you. Content: Where do I start. There's strong language, fairly graphic self-injury, bucketloads of angst, and just for good measure we have mentions of m/m and incest. I think I've actually outdone myself in the general nastiness department.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and unless I wake up one morning having mysteriously become Vince McMahon, I doubt they ever will be. Damn, that's a scary thought.
Distribution: Not that you're likely to want it, but if you do, just tell me where.
Summary: Sequel to Yours. Hunter�s pov.
Notes: I'm not being mean to Jeff Hardy on purpose. Well, actually, I am. But I only do this to him 'cause I love him so damn much, believe me! And while I love Matt and Jeff, there's just something about them that makes me want to see how far I can push� Oh, and while I�m rambling I might as well say that I�m evil and I like writing Hunter as slightly insane, but I only do that because I love him too!

***
His
***

Love and hate stand side by side. They�re both powerful, both consuming, both violent and passionate. They burn. They�re the purest emotions. And they hurt. That�s the way they were designed. It�s not a flaw. They were always supposed to hurt. They were always supposed to burn away at your soul, impress themselves on your heart. And that�s what they�ve done to me.

I look into his eyes and I can see exactly what he�s thinking. I look down into his eyes as I�m inside him and I can see exactly how much he hates me. It�s always there, every single second we�re together. It�s never going to stop. I don�t know how much longer I can live, knowing that, because no matter how close hate is to love, no matter what people say, they�re never the same. They never coexist. As long as he hates me he can�t love me, and I can see that what he feels is never going to stop.

Oh, and he doesn�t just hate me. He fucking despises me.

I think he thinks that I don�t notice. I think he thinks that I don�t care. He�s wrong.

***

I love him. I have done since the first moment I set eyes on him. Before then I wasn�t even sure I believed in love, let alone love at first sight, but when I saw him standing there in that locker room, tugging his shirt sleeves over his hands, looking almost lost, I just knew. I saw what he was and what he could be. I saw what I could do to him and that he�d let me. We could give each other exactly what we wanted, exactly what we needed.

It was overwhelming. I�d never felt like that before and I haven�t since. I never will. I couldn�t speak. For three whole weeks I couldn�t bring myself to speak to him, then one night backstage I walked into him in a corridor and finally I spoke. It probably scared him witless, not that I meant to growl at him, but it just came out that way; instead of smiling and introducing myself and asking him to dinner, I just growled some fucking thing about how he should watch where the fuck he was going then stormed away. So much for that approach. I should�ve known it was doomed, �cause I never had any intention of treating him that way after that night. And I�m not exactly known for my outstanding manners, after all.

But the next time I saw him I realised none of that mattered. Because when I looked at him I saw that he�d never expected manners. He�d never expected smiles and invitations. He saw what I was going to do to him. He�d seen it the moment we�d met. He knew. And the second I realised that, I couldn�t stop myself.

I went to him, I pulled him to his feet, I shoved him back against the wall and I kissed him. Hard. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to hurt. And he kissed back. I pressed against him, pinning him there, my fingers digging into the soft flesh just above his collarbone. I bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He didn�t try to struggle, and definitely didn�t tell me no. He just wound his arms around my waist and submitted completely. It was a perfect moment.

I pulled back, I stepped away. I watched him and he stood there, a trace of blood on his lips and that need in his eyes. He needed me. Like I needed him.

Then the door opened and the moment was lost. It was his brother, come to take him away from me, come to take him for their match. I watched them leave, smiled as he glanced back at me over his shoulder. And as I did, only then I realised we�d been alone in the room. For a couple of seconds I swear my blood ran cold. Because that was then I knew I was lost. Because anyone could have been in that room when I kissed him. Because I would have done it anyway. Anyone could have been there and I would�ve done the exact same thing. And he would have let me.

So that�s how it started.

***

I fucked him later that night. In his room, while his brother was out. It must�ve hurt like hell the way I did it and the way he screamed but he didn�t tell me no and I wasn�t surprised. He�ll never say no, not unless he thinks it�s what I want to hear. Sometimes it is and he�ll just know. He can read me better than anyone ever has.

He looked so beautiful then, the sweat glistening on his skin as I buried myself inside of him, as he wrapped his legs around my waist and held my wrists, staring up into my eyes. Some of his natural colour was showing through under the purple dye and I remember thinking how beautiful he looked as he bit down on his lip to keep from screaming. But I wanted him to scream. He saw it in my eyes and he just let go for me. He gave me everything. I couldn�t believe how good it was.

Then I left him.

I made him scream for me, and afterwards I just dressed and left him there, lying gasping and eerily calm on his bed. It was like he knew I�d be back, that this wasn�t over. He was right.

When I got back to my room I was shaking so hard I actually fell and cut my head on the corner of the vanity � the first scar. Then I lay awake for hours just feeling the blood trickle down over my neck, thinking about him and about what I was going to do to him next. I couldn�t sleep. I was too excited or buzzed or whatever to sleep because I was lying there fantasising about this beautiful, broken man, and I knew that all I�d have to do was say the word and my fantasies would become reality. It�s an amazing feeling, realising there�s someone in the world who will do absolutely anything for you.

***

The next time we were together, I started out small. I didn�t want to do what I knew I had to and was going to in the end, right then, that night, even though I could have and he wouldn�t have said a word about it if I had. It was just that I wanted to give him time to get to trust me and I wanted time to adjust to the idea that all this was real. So I started out small.

The first few times we just fucked. Then I brought handcuffs. Then a gag. Then a paddle. After four weeks I could use them all at once. But I felt vaguely ridiculous, tying him up and doing those things. It was okay, it was kinda hot, but it sure as hell wasn�t what I wanted and it wasn�t quite what either of us needed. Eventually I just couldn�t do it anymore. I untied him, I apologised for doing that to him and we never did it again.

For a couple of weeks after that I wasn�t even sure I was going to see him again and I still can�t believe how anxious that made me. Except on some level I can, because I knew I�d always hate myself if I lost him over that. Those two weeks were hell for me, not knowing. But of course I did know. Because he could never leave me. I even knew that at the time but I guess paranoia took over. I didn�t want to lose him. I *couldn�t* lose him. Worrying made me literally sick.

And then one night he turned up on my doorstep, and finally I hit him. Hard, like I�d always wanted to do. I took him inside and I hit him again, right on his jaw. He fell and he winced and he rubbed at the place where my fist had connected, then he looked up at me. That was the first time I saw how much he really hated me, and I was genuinely surprised. I still am.

I stood over him, staring down into his eyes. He was practically fucking glaring at me. It was painful to see him look at me like that. I wanted to ask him what had made him hate me, but I couldn�t. Because there was something else � sure, he hated me, I could see that, but he wanted me too. He�ll always want me, like I�ll always want him, and he outright needed me then.

He kissed me. And I fucked him, all the time remembering how it felt to hit him. I wondered how it had felt for him, if he�d expected it, how much it had hurt. I wondered what it would feel like for him to do it to me. He�s never going to hit me, but I sometimes wish he would, just so I�d know, you know? I could still feel his jawbone shifting under my knuckles, the skin sliding over the bone, the jolt of pain shooting through my hand. My fist was aching and I knew it would be bruised in the morning, just like he would be. I�d marked him.

Afterwards I got him ice for his face. Then we lay down together in my bed, I held him to me and we fell asleep. We woke up in the morning together. We spent the next day together, drove out to the next show together. It was nice. It wasn�t awkward like it could have been. We didn�t do much talking and we didn�t need to. All that mattered was that I was with him.

***

That night he was booked into a hotel room with his brother, but he came to me at 2am. I just undressed him and pulled him into bed with me. We just slept. Sometimes that�s all we do. And sometimes we do anything but. You see, I really couldn�t do anything to him that night � bruises tend to show up pretty damn well no matter what you put on to cover them up, and having a bruised Jeff Hardy show up to a big Federation pay-per-view isn�t exactly my idea of common sense. If I don�t want people to find out, I can�t afford to have him showing up for big events sporting big bruises.

But the night after � I took him back to my room and I beat the hell out of him. That was the one and only time I beat him unconscious. God, he was beautiful.

***

He made some dumb excuse to his brother about taking a few days off to be by himself, then he took off with me. Once Vince had seen the state he was in he had to give him time off, and at the time I was in the kind of position where Vince would let me get away with practically whatever I wanted. So I met him in the parking garage and I took him home.

We spent two days together before he told me he had to get back to North Carolina to see his therapist. His fucking therapist! That was a shock. Well, in a manner of speaking, until he told me he only went because it kept his brother happy. I couldn�t imagine he had any reason to see a therapist otherwise. So we got in the car and I drove him all the way back to NC, waited in the car while he had his session then took him back to his place. But I made him promise that if he was going to keep seeing psychologists or whatever the hell they were, he�d get one in Greenwich so I wouldn�t have to keep driving him half way down the Eastern seaboard every time he had a session.

His brother wasn�t there so he invited me in and showed me around. I�m not sure whether he would�ve done that if his brother had been there and I�m not sure I want to know. But he wasn�t there and Jeff didn�t take much persuading to take me to his bedroom. Although not until he�d taken me on a guided tour of the whole damn place, bouncing and grinning like an overgrown six-year-old. We�d been together for almost two months then and I�d never seen him like that.

His room was just how I�d imagined it to be; not big and not small, kinda cluttered, full of CDs and dirty laundry. He went in ahead of me and scooped up a pile of clothes, dumping them into his closet and when he turned to me he was blushing. That made me smile. He was embarrassed for me to see his room like that. I told him it didn�t matter, that all I cared about was being there with him, and he dragged me down onto the bed. I lay there with him in my arms while I toyed with the ends of his hair and let his voice wash over me � I think he was telling me something about his childhood but I wasn�t really listening and I don�t really think he cared. Sometimes when he talks it�s like he�s saying it more for himself than for me. I just zone out and listen to the sound of his voice more than the words.

We must�ve lain there for over an hour. I was comfortable, lying on his bed in his room, looking at him, touching him, hearing his voice, just being with him. That�s sometimes all I want and sometimes all I can think about. It�s like he�s made to fit in my arms. But then he was moving and pulling at my zipper and the next thing I knew he had my cock in his mouth and I was writhing under him, gasping. He�s like that. He anticipates my wants before I even know I have them.

I lashed out as I came, the back of my wrist connecting with something hard and cold, and I heard it smash against the floor. He froze. Then he moved up the bed, licking my semen from his lips as he peered over the edge. And he cursed. It�s not as if he never curses, but there was something about the tone of his voice as he said it that chilled me. It was kinda low and desperate and ragged, sad or something. I never quite figured that out and to be honest I�d rather not.

�What is it?� I asked. From the look on his face you�d have thought he was going to cry. I know I did.

�A picture�. He reached down and scooped it up and I could see that what I�d broken was a large photo of him and his brother in a heavy metal frame. All the glass was broken out and the picture was scratched - he looked more like I�d broken his heart than his photograph frame.

I frowned as he left the bed. I asked him where he was going and he just muttered something at me as I lay there, staring dumbly after him as he left the room.

I didn�t know what to think. I couldn�t decide if the picture had some kind of special meaning to him and that was why he was so pissed at me or if I�d done nothing wrong and he�d just wanted an excuse to get away from me. It was an odd feeling. I want to say it was anxiety but I�m really not sure what it was. I just hated not knowing if I�d done something wrong and I could fix it or if this was the kind of something I couldn�t fix.

But I hadn�t done anything wrong, or anything to make him hate me. I never have. I�ve never done anything he didn�t want me to do, I know that. So why would he be trying to get away from me? There was still this nagging feeling that I might be wrong despite all that and I didn�t like it. So I decided to go to him. It was all I could do.

I left the bed and I walked down the hall, opening up the doors and peering inside as I went but he wasn�t there in any of the rooms. Then there was only one door left. I tried the handle but it was locked so I knocked on it, but got no answer. I listened, my ear close to the wood, and I could just hear this faint sound from inside, and it felt like something seized my heart. He was crying. He was sad. He was upset. I didn�t want that. I never wanted anything to hurt him like that. And even worse, I didn�t know what was wrong and I wasn�t sure I could make it better.

Knocking didn�t work, so I called his name. He told me to leave, but I didn�t. I begged him to let me in. I fucking begged him, and I don�t beg anyone. I just felt so desperate standing there, confused and helpless, and that�s not exactly a normal feeling for me. So I told him that I�d break down the door if he didn�t let me in, and that worked, because he knew I�d do it. He opened the door.

The first thing I saw was the blood in the washbasin. It looked kinda pinky-red against the stark white, running slowly down the sides and pooling thinly.

Then I saw the razorblade. It was on the floor, all shiny red and glaring under the light. I frowned. I didn�t want to look up. But when wet red drops started to fall around it, I had to. I felt sick and I was fascinated.

His arm was bleeding. Not his wrist thank God, because I�d had this sickening feeling that he�d done something stupid. Fortunately he hadn�t. He�d just cut himself and he was bleeding and his arm was kind of a mess, but it would get better.

He looked up at me. My God, that look was just� I can�t explain it. He looked like he was falling apart inside, like he didn�t know whether to kiss me or kill me. There were tears in his eyes. And he just stood there looking at me while his blood dripped onto the floorboards.

Then he sobbed. Just once, his whole body jumping with the force of it, before he threw himself into my arms. And I just held him there, holding him so tight to my chest as I felt him shake against me and heard him cry. I stood there rocking him gently, feeling his tears soaking into my shoulder and his blood soaking into my back. Then I sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and I carefully dressed the cut on his arm � I guessed he might need stitches, but for now the bleeding was stopped so that could wait. Then I cleaned the blood from the floor and washed the blood from the washbasin. And then I took him back into his room and I made love to him.

***

After that day I knew he�d always come back to me. We were together. I knew him better than anyone else, just like he knew me � I understood him. Well, at least a part of him. I�d always known that he wasn�t happy, but then I knew that the pain made him feel better somehow. I felt it in the way he�d kissed me, like he�d cut himself, had some sort of confused reaction for a moment that I guessed was embarrassment at me having found him like that, then felt better because of it. He�d smiled at me and for a moment I could almost pretend that I didn�t know how he felt about me.

Sometimes I can pretend that he doesn�t, because sometimes he�ll be with me and he�ll actually look happy. Usually when we�re in bed, but he looks happy while he�s in my arms and when he�s asleep. And it�s usually just after he�s cut. Or after I�ve cut him.

He came over three days later and I perched on the edge of my tub while I watched him cut himself. I couldn�t decide whether I should stop him or just let him get on with it, but in the end I realised that it was best to let him do it. He�d probably just walk out if I tried to stop him, and besides, if he felt better when he�d cut then who was I to stop him?

And I realised that I didn�t want to. It was fascinating to watch him do it. He was so careful, cutting through his skin only just deep enough for it not to mean a trip to the emergency room for stitches and a psychiatrist. There was this look on his face and I could tell it hurt but I could also tell he liked how it felt.

Then he sighed and he turned to me and held out his arm all bloody and wet. I took his wrist and I looked at the cut. He�d opened up the inside of his forearm with a razorblade, and I was just sitting there staring at the flesh around it, down into it� I looked up into his face and his expression was unreadable. He frowned and looked away while I held his wrist, feeling his pulse through his warm skin, then he looked back down at me.

�Do you want to cut me?� he asked. I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on his wrist for a second as I realised what he�d just said. Then I just bit my lip and nodded. He handed me the razorblade and I took it.

I didn�t cut deep, just through the surface. I didn�t cut anywhere near as deep as he�d cut himself. I didn�t trust myself. I didn�t want to hurt him, to make a mistake and end up watching him bleed to death. I needed him with me too much for that. I was careful. I held his wrist with one hand and cut into his arm with the other. I watched the blood well up, collecting on the surface of his skin, and I looked up into his face. He was watching me with a small smile on his face. I smiled back.

I loved him so much in that moment. I�ve never loved him more. He looked so beautiful bloody.

***

He makes me happy. He�s the only one who�s ever come close to making me happy. When he�s with me it�s like nothing else matters at all, just that we�re together and he�s near me. I love how warm he feels in my arms. I love how he�ll lie in my bed and run his hand through my hair. I love how his scars feel under my fingers.

He has scars down both forearms, front and back, where he�s cut himself. They�re mostly thin and short and they feel odd as I run my hands down then, because I know they�re his arms but they don�t feel like it. They�re uneven, ridged from his elbows down. But I always stop when I get to his wrists. Because he has scars there, too, scars I don�t want to touch. I asked him how he got them, sounding as innocent as I could, and he told me straight out that he tried to kill himself. Of course I�d already known � how else could he have got scars like that � but I guess I hadn�t really wanted to hear that. I knew he could be suicidal again so easily and I don�t ever want to have to live without him.

Because he makes me happy. All he has to do is be there and I�m happy. He�s everything I need. I just wish I could make him feel even a hundredth of what I feel for him. I�d do anything to make him feel the same way I do. Absolutely anything.

And I�d do anything for him. He should know that. I shouldn�t have to tell him. And sometimes I think he understands how I feel about him, but I guess most of the time he doesn�t. I think I�d kill for him, and I don�t mean that figuratively. I�d do anything. Because I never want to find out what it would be like to live without him. I remember that I felt empty before, like part of me was missing, like I was always waiting for something, and I don�t want to have to feel that way again. I�d do anything to keep him with me.

I think sometimes he�s happy with me. Maybe when I�m cutting him. He seems to like that. I do exactly what he tells me to, drawing the razorblade over his skin and watching the blood well up out of the cut. And afterwards he holds me or we make love or we talk. Not that we ever really talk � usually our talking involves one of us talking and the other staring vacantly. But sometimes we have conversations. All he ever seems to talk about is wrestling or his brother, but I don�t mind. After all, all I talk about is wrestling or how beautiful he is.

Because he is beautiful. Everyone knows it. He�d fucked his way through half the damn federation before we were even officially introduced, and I don�t think he�s under any illusion that the fans all love him for his sparkling personality. But he�s so much more beautiful than any of them knows. He�s so perfectly imperfect, so fucked up and amazing that it takes my breath away. He�s what�s missing from me. I just wish I could show him.

But I can�t. Because he doesn�t love me. He fucking hates me. I don�t know why, because I�ve never done anything to make him feel that way about me. It�s the worst feeling in the world to know that the one person that you�ve ever loved, the one person in the world that�s ever made you happy, just fucking hates you. I don�t understand how he can hate me when I�m so good to him, for him. What did I ever do that he didn�t want me to? What the fuck could I have done differently? I just wish I knew so I could make it right with him. Because if he didn�t hate me then he could love me and that�s all I want. I just want him to love me. It hurts that he doesn�t.

This rates as a fairly close second, though. I have him with me and he�s not going to leave me. Because even if he hates me, he wants me. And he needs me, he knows that. I�m all he�s got.

But there�s one big problem. I want him to love me. I want him to be mine, like I�m his. Because I am, completely. Everything I am and everything I have is for him. I only wish he knew that, But he can�t. Because he�s in love with someone else.

***

I see the way he looks at him sometimes. I see the look in his eyes. Maybe he thinks I�m not watching, or maybe he knows I�m watching and just doesn�t care - I hope I�m wrong but I think I�m right. I mean, he hates me, why should he care how I feel? But I don�t think he knows I know. I don�t think it would really bother him if he did know, because he knows I love him too much to tell anyone. I�d never do that to him.

I just don�t see what he has that I don�t. In fact, I can give Jeff more than he ever could. I know what he wants and what he needs. I�ll always be there for him, no questions asked. I�ll always do what�s best for him. And I *know* what�s best for him. I�ve given him all of me, every time we�re together. I�ve made love to him, really made love to him. I�ve shown him what love can be. What can he give him? He�ll only hurt him. It�s all he could ever do. He doesn�t deserve to have him if all he does is hurt him that way.

He�s the reason my lover cuts himself. He�s the reason my lover tried to kill himself. He�s caused him more pain than I ever could. Sure, he doesn�t know how Jeff feels about him, I can see that, but that�s pain he�s causing him all the same. God, if only he�d love me and not him. I could make him so happy � we�re so right for each other. He can�t see that I�ll love him forever and all he�s ever going to get from this obsession of his is hurt, because there�s really no other way it could end. I wish he could see that I�m right for him. I think maybe he knows it, but he doesn�t want to face it; he�s so deep in love that he doesn�t want to acknowledge that I�m the only one that can love him like he deserves to be loved. There�s not another soul on Earth that can love him like I can.

But he loves someone else and there�s nothing I can do that would change that. He�s in love with someone he shouldn�t be in love with, even I can see that, and I know he can. If he didn�t then why would he be trying to hide it? If there wasn�t something wrong with loving him then he�d tell him and he�d leave me and they�d be together. But I know he�s not going to tell him. He can�t. It�s killing him to keep it a secret, I can see that, but he can�t tell him. He�ll stay with me. He�ll stay with me and I�ll pretend like he�s mine.

He�ll stay with me. Unless he finds out that the guy he�s in love with feels exactly the same way as him. Because he does. I see the way Jeff looks at him, and I see his brother looking back the exact same way. He loves Jeff and Jeff doesn�t know. Jeff loves him and he�s completely fucking oblivious.

They can never find out. They just can�t, because if he left it�d kill me. I couldn�t live without him and I don�t think I�d even want to try. So what do I do?

I make sure he doesn�t find out.

He can�t leave me. I won�t let him. Even if I know he�s not mine to keep. He�ll never be mine. I�ll always belong him, but he can never be mine. Never. Because he�s not mine. He�s his.

***
End
***

On to 'Mine'