Stranded [England] [Complete]

[America]

"Cake?" America repeated, trying not to look incredibly confused about that fact (although he did fail miserably at the attempt). "Something big and long?" He stared at England for a few seconds longer before shrugging his shoulders, looking away. "Well, not exactly what I had in mind, but whatever. I'll grab a cake in a few minutes."

He instantly felt embarrassed for assuming it was something else, especially while under the conditions they were under. England was sure to think that he was both kinky and disturbing. Ready to change the subject to take attention away from his obvious blunder, he wrapped an arm around England, inviting him closer, and grinned when England curled in towards him.

"You know how exciting a future with you sounds?" he asked, fingers making short, circular motions against England's shoulder. "I can just...gosh, I can imagine it. Waking up every morning to see you in bed beside me would be the best thing ever. And we'd go downstairs and make breakfast together, so I can watch and make sure you don't burn the house down. And, if we don't have any work to complete that day, we can go out and enjoy the sights and sounds and I'd buy us hot dogs for lunch and we'd sit in the park and eat. Then we'd come home and I'd make us a romantic dinner, and after dinner, we'll, uh, have sex, and then we'll curl up like we are no and go to sleep."

So he wasn't fancy in his speech, nor was he very comfortable, even now, with mentioning their future sex life, but he still smiled proudly. Whether he was proud of his idea of their future or of the fact that he got to hold England in his arms, he didn't know, but as he moved to pepper kisses along England's cheek, he was pretty sure that he was just proud of having England as his boyfriend.

[England]

"You're too cute, and I can't not believe you after everything you've said," England smiled and exposed his cheek to collect more kisses. He enjoyed attention from his boyfriend very much, after all. Guilty as charged. Except it felt like he could only get such attention when they were alone, with nothing else to do to pass the time. It was weird. It was almost as if... their love was there to fill gaps in time.

England didn't want that, so he was glad to hear that America had an entire future planned out for them. Of course, he was sure that nothing would go exactly as planned, but that was alright, because he had America by his side and that's all he really needed. Just like right now. The person he loved was right by his side, and though the world was going to hell, he felt strangely at peace.

"That sounds good. May I get a raincheck on that?" he smiled softly, turning his head to catch America's next kiss on his lips. "So that someday, when this is all over, we'll be laying in bed at night, and we'll be waiting for sleep, and I'll say 'Hey, America? Do you remember when we got stuck on that roof so long ago and for a lack of anything else to do, you gave me a raincheck for the wonderful day I spent with you today?'. And the memories won't be bad, because all the fear and pain will be left in the past and only the good times will filter through. It will... It will be nice." He glanced into America's eyes, and blushed, smile sheepish. "I look forward to a lifetime with you."

Quickly ducking his face into America' shoulder, he left it at that, embarrassed. To bring America down with him, though, he quickly pulled out a subject that he knew would agitate him, just for the hell of it.

"So what did you have in mind as a reward? Do I look like I have anything else to give you?" he huffed, though a smirk was plastered on his hidden face. "Did you have any specific ideas?"

[America]

"I don't think I'm ever gonna be scared or sad or hurt again with you by my side. And I won't remember it, either." He smiled. "If I were left alone, that would be the only things I could think of; the pain and horrors of these times. But, when I have you, I'll remember how we came together even with all the odds against us, how we first slept with each other on that really lazy day, how we laid down on a roof with zombies all around us and kissed each other."

He chuckled, feeling sappy, but unable to drive such feelings away. "And then the only thing I can do is just smile and answer, 'I'll give you as many rainchecks as you want for as many wonderful days as you want,' and you'll call me an idiot or something and then I'll give you even more kisses." He wanted that day. He wanted to end everything and fix everything, and then he could spend as many wonderful days with England as he could ever want.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and didn't speak again until England had asked him the question (or, really, questions). Then he felt his face turn red. God, so England did catch his confusion. England was wondering what he meant from everything. He could have just died on the spot. Never before did he want zombie interference so bad.

"We-Well, um, I guess not. Like, I was just, you know, kinda confused because I don't think the cakes are that long. Not like- I-I-I mean, I didn't have anything specific in mind, but I thought you did, and I was kinda hoping...well, I wasn't really hoping, but it really wasn't nothing. I don't need any rewards, not when I got you and your kisses."

He felt that it was a pretty good thing to end his onslaught of alphabet shit with.

[England]

"... Right," England couldn't hold back his laughter, smothering his chuckles behind his hand and trying to give America a provocative glance, though it only ended up as a raised eyebrow and a quivering smile. "Alright, well, you pick up that cake, whatever shape it is, I thought they were rather elliptical, for the record, and you enjoy one of those while you still can. Perhaps we'll be on the run tomorrow afternoon. I don't want to spend another second here, but we're better off staying low just in case there are a few stragglers around the sides of the building. If the gentlemen at the door haven't called the entire bloody city here already, that is," he threw a glance at the door.

The zombies were still making a deafening noise by the door. They seemed to be aware of the fact that two living beings were camping on the roof, and they didn't seem to be too keen on leaving any time soon. The sound of their moans and groans and screeches was heartbreaking, as well. Not in a tragic sense, but actually heart-breaking, demoralizing, depressing, spirit-wrecking, and so on. England wasn't sure if either of them could take it anymore.

"I can't wait for when we get out of here," England mumbled, eyes trained on the arms sticking out of the doorway and clawing at thin air. "Not just here, like on this roof, or the city, but here, like in this apocalyptic wasteland. I feel like every day we spend here is another day closer to our end, and another day further from all these wonderful times we keep promising one another. I wonder if there will be an end to it all. If someday, we'll sit on a roof from our own will, and watch the sunset, and not broken buildings, perhaps drink some beer, not gulps of stale water, and talk about life, not death." He trailed off afterward, shrugging and pushing himself up. "I guess I don't really know. Who does?"

He dusted himself off, even if his dirt-and-blood streaked clothes, at this point, were pretty much not salvageable anymore, and thoughtfully looked at the door again.

"I need to think," he announced, gulping down. "I'm going to greet our neighbours. I'll come back in a little while, alright? Don't worry."

[America]

Grumbling in embarrassment, America dug around inside the bag for yet another cake, which he found with great ease. He knew he shouldn't be using up so much of their supplies, especially if they couldn't find a way of escape by the next twenty-four hours, but he didn't have anything else to do. Besides, he was sure they'd find a way of escape. If not, America himself would go down and make one. He wasn't in the mood to be stuck up on a roof with zombies for longer than he had to be stuck up on one.

"There'll be an end to it," America promised, then closed his eyes and sighed. All he could do was promise things. He was hardly bringing anything into action. He would just add promise after promise onto his left, and the longer they sat there, the more they felt like lies. He was sure England could tell. He was positive England could tell. There was no way his boyfriend would listen to him and honestly believe every single little thing. England was smarter than that. England could see that the promises were just becoming something to keep their spirits up.

What if everything was just to keep their spirits up?

Trying not to dwell on such awful thoughts, America rolled over, flopping onto his stomach, and worriedly looked over to the door. He felt sick when staring upon the rotting arms that were waving about, trying to find some source of the fresh meat he knew they smelled. He wanted them gone. And who "them" referred to, America wasn't sure.

"Um, okay," he said, opening his cake and letting his voice go quiet. He thought about reaching out and grabbing onto England in a refusal to be left alone, but decided against it. He had to give the two of them some space, after all, and if England needed to think, America would let him. "But...be quick, 'kay? I don't, uh...like being alone with my, um..." He shrugged. "Just hurry back and be careful." He didn't look up from his cake, fingers gripping it tighter than they should.

[England]

((That's actually a really good question, and a dimension that the hopeless romantic inside of me never thought of exploring. It's an interesting topic to think about, and I will definitely consider that in future post-apocalyptic scenarios o__o ))

England glanced at America, trying to decipher his body language. Some thought was making him visibly uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to want to share with England, so he didn't press it further. If it was something that concerned him, or that he should be concerned with, he trusted America to tell. And if not... Well, they all had thoughts plaguing them nowadays. America was no exception.

And England was not either, which is why he turned his back to America and began walking away without another word.

The moans got increasingly louder as he approached the door, to the point where he put his earplugs into his ears and they still sounded like they were howling. If it was even possible, England swore they got even more hysterical when he finally walked into their line of sight, calmly sitting down right in front of the doorway, a foot away from the grip of the nearest hand. It was like a confirmation to the monsters that their instincts had been right. Associating olfactory stimulus with visuals, they recognized a living being, streaked with fresh blood, to top it all off, and screeched even more violently.

Still, as perilous as his position was, England made sure that he was still in America's line of sight before slumping over and putting his head in his hands. He was going to think on his own, but it didn't mean that he was alone.

The zombies were practically tearing limbs off of one another in their haste to get to the prey sitting right outside their reach. England thought it was slightly more pitiful than usual. He had a moment of weakness where he found himself wishing that the rattling chain holding the door shut would break, and that he'd have a reason to shoot the poor bastards in the head, as many as he could before they took him down and bit his face off.

The chain stood sturdy, though, so England just stood there, watching their blood scrape on the floor, the door, the chains, bits of skin and muscle separated from their owners, and the infernal moans. The only thing he did not dare do, for fear of going crazy, was look at them in their milky, rotten eyes.

[America]

[[brilliant meri appears every so often.]]

America watched England from the corner of his eye as his boyfriend left. Despite the knowledge that England wasn't an idiot and wouldn't do anything stupid, he couldn't help it when his heart skipped a beat or two upon seeing how close he got to the zombies. No matter what, he didn't think he'd ever feel safe or calm when they got too close to any one of them. No, the hairs at the back of his neck would always stand up when he heard their screeching, their intensified screeching at finally catching sight of more prey.

God, why did England have to go and show himself to them? It was bad enough that they were moaning as it was. Now it seemed like they doubled their efforts. America closed his eyes and finished off his cake, then brought his arms up to bury his head into them, but nothing was helping. The door was still shaking and the chains were still rattling, just as they had been doing throughout the majority of the night, throughout the entire day. Just as they would be doing for the next day. And the next. And however long it took for an escape to commence.

Loud noises for a long period of time would stay. America knew that much. They could escape the next day, and he'd still hear the moans from inside the warehouse. Hell, years later, he'd try falling asleep, and those moans would be ringing in his ears, a reminder of the time they were literally feet away from death's touch.

America was going to go insane.

He ran his fingers through his hair, letting his nails dig into his scalp. All those happy, romantic feelings must have left with England. He was filled with self-doubt and complete anger. He couldn't stop the zombies. He was used to shooting at his enemies, but the zombies were there, right there, and they certainly weren't leaving anytime soon, but America couldn't even kill them.

Finally, he brought his head up and glared over at England. "Did you have to sit right there?" he called out, seemingly uncaring of how loud he was being. "They're already insane enough, and now look!"

[England]

England was honestly trying to think. His eyes were frozen on the chain holding the door closed, his brain whirring as it tripped over itself in its haste to come up with something, anything. The zombie moans were ringing loudly in his ears and reverberating in his head, and strangely enough, they were the source of England's inspiration. He had to know his enemy before attempting to fight it, and observation was all that he could do for the moment. Field studies could be done at a later time, as he was in no position to experiment with them. If anything, the undead had hoarded them and was conducting a field study on them. How long they'd be able to last on that roof without going crazy.

Staying was not an option anymore. They had to find some way they could escape and pass unseen in the zombie-filled streets below. Unfortunately, their scent was strong now that they'd dug into America's blood, along with natural sweat. They couldn't fool them with smell, then. They could fool them through visual stimulus by staying out of their sight, but how well would that be able to work out in the streets full of the undead? Whatever they did, they stuck out like sore thumbs amongst the zombies, smelling and looking different, alive, in a hoard of dead bodies.

England was snapped out of his musings by America's shout. He didn't exactly hear what he had said because of his earplugs, but he didn't sound too pleased. England was not worried. He had other worries than America's mood swings. He didn't mean to ignore him, but he just couldn't hear him. He couldn't risk missing any important information, though, so he pulled his earplugs out. The screeches of the undead intensified and drilled into his head immediately. Grunting, he waved his hand at them, passing it scarily close to the nearest grasping fingers, and enjoying the adrenaline thrill of flirting with danger that way.

"Quiet down a little," he huffed, getting up. The hands followed his rise, to his slight amusement. "I'm trying to converse here. How rude," he smirked, and dusted himself off before heading back to America.

"Did you need anything?" he called out as he began walking back to the sound of desperate screeching.

[America]

It made sense for England to be so calm while America felt like he was about to explode. Of course, as he laid eyes upon England's lighthearted face, he couldn't help but feel a little bit better. At least the zombies weren't affecting him. Outwardly, anyway. Still, America couldn't help but huff and look away. God, those moans just kept getting louder and louder. The longer England stayed away, the more time America had to dwell on nothing but the constant noises of the undead.

He hated it.

"They're being too loud," he finally responded, voice slightly muffled from the position he was in. But, no, it wasn't just a matter of them being too loud. It was a matter of the filters in America's mind turning off. It was a matter of fear. America was terrified of the zombies. He had always been scared of supernatural creatures, and zombies, coming back to life and all, certainly fit his category of supernatural. He was scared and he had to live with them, fight with them. Now, he had to live with them. He had to live through the incessant screeching and the smell and the hands and the sight and-

He sat up suddenly, hand flying to the gun on his belt. "Oh my god," he growled angrily, glaring at the shaking door. "I'm gonna shoot them all." His fingers itched to pull the trigger and watch all of the creatures just fall to the ground. Might as well put them out of their misery, right? Besides, he needed a good sleep without being woken to their sounds. Plus, with the zombies dead, they would be in the clear to run away.

"I can use all my bullets and just stab the rest," he suggested, standing up slowly. His movements were shaky, and he winced as he put weight on his injured leg.

[England]

England's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't show how nervous the sudden confession made him feel. America was going to snap if this kept on going. England couldn't let that happen, not to America. They may have survived through hand-to-hand combat and field work so far, but they were obviously losing the psychological war going on in the background. That's exactly what they had to watch out for, especially considering that they couldn't die from bites unless in extreme conditions. The main danger was the maddening presence of the nightmarish creatures.

And none of them were able to resist for too long.

Before he knew it, he'd strode over to America, taking a moment to look him in the eye before he acted. Lightning fast, he reached over and cracked America's knuckles, just enough to get him to loosen his grip on the gun. Pulling it to himself, he unloaded the gun with an ease that even scared him and flung the gun and its now-separate ammunition to the ground. And then, he pulled America's head to his chest and boxed it in with his arms so that he could pull him into the dark for just a moment.

"Don't," he warned in a whisper. "Don't let them do this to you." He waited another few seconds before pulling him back and cradling his face, looking him square in the eye. "They want to drive you mad so that you'll be easier prey for them. Don't let them succeed. You're strong, and I believe in you." He had to admit that it was not an easy task, and that he, too, had moments of madness where he couldn't take it anymore, but if anybody had to suffer the least, it was his dearest America.

"Tomorrow morning," he whispered, throat locked. "I swear that tomorrow morning, we'll get out. I may have a plan, but I need to think a little more about it. But by tomorrow afternoon, we'll be back, I promise, and you can finally relax, alright? Trust me." He searched his eyes for any sign of the previous bout of madness. "Please."

[America]

America didn't know what he was expecting. England obviously wasn't going to allow him to just go on a rampage and waste all of his bullets fighting off the zombies at the door. But he had been hoping for some harsh words, an angry tone. Not that. He hadn't thought that England just might push everything out of his hands and hug him like that.

He didn't know whether to feel like he was being babied or loved.

Deciding it was a bit of both, he pulled away quickly, stumbling backwards and hissing in pain when his leg throbbed. "Don't say that!" he snapped angrily, managing to steady himself. "They may not affect you, but that's all I can hear. I can't block it out, not like you can, and I'm just so tired of it." He stepped forward, grabbing his unloaded gun and cradling it to his chest with one hand as he located the ammunition. Once he grabbed that and loaded his gun again, he kept talking.

"I dunno, you might already be hardened by all of this, since you've been in so many wars, but I'm not, England. And I'm trying to continue on and smile through it, but, it's just- I can't fucking do it. At all!" He gritted his teeth. "I feel like I'm losing myself and I don't know what's going...I don't know what's going on, and I'm just so scared. About everything. The zombies and the warehouse and my country and, hell, even us, and I'm so fucking tired. I'm tired, England." His voice had grown weaker as he carried on, and he finally just had to sit back on the ground, letting the gun clatter to his side as he removed his glasses and ran a hand across his face.

"I'm tired of feeling scared."

[England]

England could clearly see that America needed space. He hadn't anticipated such a violent rejection, so he fumbled a little, eyes wide and surprised as he tried to compose himself and find something to say. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything either. He wasn't sure what to do anymore. What to do other than defend himself against what he immediately identified as a personal attack.

"Poor little America," he hissed, stepping back and clenching his fists. "He's the only one who is terrified of turning around, he's the only one scared that his next breath will be his last, he's the only one haunted by night and tortured by day. The rest of us have it so easy, so used to death and traumatic scenes, poor little America has no one to relate with." He was being unnecessarily cynical, but he couldn't help it. He felt like he was under attack, and his self-defense mechanism, to his conscious dismay, had been activated.

"Get over it. Why do you think all of us are still alive? We all harbour the same fear you do, and every single one of us still living in this damned wasteland is just as terrified as you are. And that's why we're still alive and breathing: because we let our fear influence our choices, but we don't let it control us." He gritted his teeth. "There's no such thing as being desensitized to death and war. Just because some of us have seen horrific days a lot longer than you have, it doesn't make us heartless. What we can do, though, is move on, no matter how everything hurts and terrifies us."

He crossed his arms and leaned back, muscles tense as he tried to control his temper.

"Do you think that we're deaf to their cries? We hear them every moment of the day, just like you do. We see their rotted faces behind our eyelids when we try to find a moment of respite. We tremble at the thought of going out and fighting these monsters every day. All of us are broken somewhere inside, but do you know what makes the difference between you and I?" He hadn't wanted to make this about himself, specifically, but he'd experienced first hand the fear associated with these abominations, and he didn't want America to come any closer than he was to that fear. Which was why he was taking this down to a personal level. "You are afraid of fear. And I am not."

Pulling his earplugs out of his pocket, England pivoted to grab America's damp jacket, folded against the concrete barrier, and threw it at him. Without waiting for him to take a hold of the jacket properly, he strode forward and crouched, roughly grabbing his hand and prying his palm open, depositing the earplugs in it and closing the fist over it.

"You're not tired of feeling scared," he mumbled, standing back up and looking down at America. "You're tired of not being able to exploit that fear to your advantage." He then turned around and faced the door where the cries were coming from. "Put in the earplugs, lie down and cover your face with your jacket. You may still be running a fever so save your strength for tomorrow." He began walking back towards the door. "I still have some thinking to do."

[America]

America sat in silence as England spoke, unable to bring forth any sort of sentence, any sort of sound. He had expected comfort. He often said things without thinking, but this was one of those times where he wanted England to chase after him again. And, even though he had planned on brushing his boyfriend off, just to add to the pity, he certainly did want to be comforted.

This was completely unexpected, completely heart-wrenching.

He grabbed his jacket and set it beside him angrily, then glared up at England right before he turned away. He wasn't sure who he was more upset with; himself, or England. Sure, he might have deserved some of the harsh words, because he obviously wasn't the only one going through everything, but he didn't believe he deserved anything [i[that

[/i] harsh.

The earplugs were clenched in shaking fists as he struggled with his thoughts. He could just shut his mouth and sleep everything off and hope for the best in the morning. He could walk over and apologize and try and reconcile. He could throw a fit and cry and blame England for everything. Or, as normal, he could just blurt out the first thing his mind thought of, unable to filter and unable to keep himself from holding back.

"I hate you!" he called, making sure England could hear. "I fucking hate you! You think you're so high-and-mighty, you know? 'Oh, look at me, I'm England, I've been through so much and I'm so much better than everyone else because I've done stuff that they haven't, so I know more and and I'm not afraid of anything so no one else should be, either'!" He looked down at the earplugs in his hand, then, a bit regretfully, threw them towards England.

"Here you go, O Great One!" he snapped. "You deserve so much more than I do, since you're so much better than I am!" He grabbed his jacket again and huffed, making sure to looking England dead in the eye. "Take them and go to hell for all I care."

He knew he was being a bit over-the-top, a bit dramatic, but he didn't care until he flung the jacket over his head and laid down.

Then the tears welled up in his eyes.[/blockquote]

[England]

England was planning on just walking away and letting America cool down a little, but he would have lied if he'd told himself that his words didn't strike something inside of him. He stopped walking, halfway between America and the door, and realized that he could either go back to America, or keep going and end up alone. If he went back to America, he had the choice to apologize and make up, or respond to the now-obvious personal attack on him. And he already knew which option would take priority if he did turn around and return.

America needed to calm down, not be riled up. And so, he kept walking.

"Of course you hate me," he mumbled to himself, putting his hands into his pockets to appear nonchalant, but wincing when his nails dug through the cloth of his pants and into the skin of his thighs. "Keep the bloody earplugs," he called out louder, addressing America though he did not turn around to see how he reacted. "I don't need them. Crazy people go to hell a lot faster, don't you think?"

And even if he had gotten an answer to his sarcasm, he didn't hear it, for within the next steps he took, he couldn't hear anything anymore, nothing aside from the screeches of the undead. Ignoring them as best as he could, he sat back down where he was a while ago and sighed, dropping his face in his hands. America was probably sulking, so there was no danger of him turning around to see how distressed the accusations had really made him feel.

"I'm trying," he mumbled out to the zombies, glad that they were making a ruckus so that he could elevate the tone of his voice without being heard. "I'm trying! What the hell do I do wrong, damn it?" he hissed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "This is all your fault." He glared up at the faceless monsters screeching at him. "You stay the bloody hell away from us! Aren't you done wrecking lives? Can't you see that we are dead already?" Nothing replied to him, other than wild moans. "Just because we look alive and smell alive, doesn't mean that we are!"

And in contrast, he probably picked the wrong moment to get an epiphany, but for the moment, he finally consolidated an escape tactic in his head and had one less thing to worry about. But that didn't mean he had nothing to think about.

He didn't know how to express his fear to America. He'd said it himself: England was being selfish and conceited by dramatizing his past experiences, though that hadn't been his goal. So how could he admit to America that he genuinely was terrified, but used the fear to his advantage, and that it wasn't hard for anybody to train themselves to do it. England, too, feared the cries of the undead, but he'd sworn to himself to never forfeit the psychological battle.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he could be desensitized to this constant terror if he was subjected to it a lot. He wasn't sure what he was proving by doing this, but the alternative called for him kicking the door, and that would alert America of his inner distress. And he didn't want to give anybody a chance to see how weak he could get in tough times. So instead, he sat motionless, face in his hands, and forced himself to listen to every single scream that the nightmares at the door directed at him.

[America]

America almost didn't quite catch what England was telling him. But, he did, unfortunately, and decided he didn't want to listen to anything that England would tell him. He would hear it all, sure, but he was going to ignore it, push it out of his mind, and focus on calming himself down. Usually, England's voice could have done just that. And if everything had gone like America had wanted it to go, England's voice would have been calming rather than upsetting.

So, America stayed in his position on the floor, only moving to push the jacket off his face and wrap it around his upper body. His arms had goosebumps from the wind, and he'd much rather be warm, even if it involved having to hear the noises of the dead without any material to muffle it. Sure, it didn't muffle it fully, but at least it gave him more comfort.

Perhaps he didn't deserve that comfort, though.

After all, he had just told England he hated him. While that was obviously untrue, while he knew in his heart that he could never hate England, he still said it. Never mind the fact that England (hopefully) knew it was untrue. Never mind the fact that England had said his own fair share of harsh words. Were both of them in the wrong? Or was it just himself. Maybe he was taking what England said and over-dramatizing it. England loved him and wanted him to be okay. Besides, America knew that England usually fought things with snapping and criticizing words. It was part of his nature.

Doesn't mean he's gotta do it to his boyfriend, America thought, huffing angrily and wrapping his arms around himself from underneath his jacket. No, England was in the wrong. He had to be. No loving partner would ever say such things. No one would say such things to someone who needed comforting and love.

It didn't occur to America that perhaps they both needed comforting and love, and America had just taken, taken, taken, and hadn't given any away in return.

He bit at his lip, fists clenched by his side, and blinked those tears away, hardening his face. He wouldn't cry over England's faults. And, this time, he wouldn't apologize. England would have to, and even then, America wanted to wait a bit before offering his forgiveness. He wanted England to prove his love by-

God, he wanted to see England cry over him.

The thought sickened America. He reached over and grabbed his gun, holding it close by his side (while making sure his finger was nowhere near the trigger). He was a sick, disgusting bastard. He wanted England to cry, and as much as he hated himself, he couldn't change those feelings.