"When did I start smiling?" Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
It’s cold. Really fucking cold but I’m indoors, wearing the two layers of jumpers that Gee wrapped me in so that I could keep warm. I’m still cold, though, and I think it’s because Dad forgot to pay the bills. Again.
It was probably my fault, just like he said it was last time. I’m always getting in his way and making everything harder for everyone. I whine too much, I cry too much, I eat too much; I spoil every fucking thing and then Dad has to punish me so that I learn no to do it again, kind of like when someone’s training a dog not to use the living room as it’s toilet. Apart from a dog can actually get to be better, learn it’s lesson, but I just keep on getting it wrong and Dad has to keep on teaching me. I guess I’m lucky really; most fathers would have given up on me by now.
I’m sat on the floor in my box of a bedroom, back against the wall and knees to my chest, just waiting to be told what I’ve done wrong and getting ready for my punishment. The thought of Dad beating me used to scare me back when it first started but now, at the age of fourteen and having gotten used to it over the past five years, I just accept it. I’m not saying that it doesn’t make me scream any less than it used to, just that I understand it now. I understand that it’s not simply him making me bleed and cry for no reason, that he’s just trying to help me get better at being me so that I can actually have a decent life where the bullies won’t hurt me.
He does love me; he’s got to. Why else would he be so bent on making me better?
He doesn’t hate me; he can’t. He’s my dad. If he doesn’t love me then who does?
The roar rumbles through the house, making me flinch back against the wall and my heartbeat become too fast for it to be comfortable. I bury my face in my knees, trying desperately to hide my features because I know that it’ll be a hundred times worse if he sees that I’m crying like the weak, worthless little fuck-up that I am. And if he sees the split lip the kids at school gave me today because they can see that I deserve it too, he’ll have a go at me for not standing up for myself.
My bedroom door flies open, the hinges sounding like a cancer patient’s dying groan, and footsteps pound on the bare wood floor. He sounds angry, really angry. As in; Gerard’s-going-to-be-cleaning-my –blood-off-the-floor angry. I don’t even know what I did today, all I’ve done is go to school and hide in my room doing my homework, and I tried so hard to be good. To have just one day where I’m not being a disappointment to my dad for being me. To my mom for making her worry about the bruises and contusions. To my big brother, the best big brother in the world, for forcing him to clean me up every time this fucking happens.
“What’s wrong, Son?” He growls down to me, voice slurred with alcohol and pure hatred in equal abundance, making my head burn in unbridled terror. “You scared?”
I want to answer him, really I do, but my voice just won’t work; like it’s hiding inside my throat because it knows what’s coming and doesn’t want to get the worst of it. So I just let a small whimper surface from the gloomy depths of my swollen mouth, making me sound even more pathetic than Dad already thinks I am. That Dad’s trying to help me not to be in his own special form of tough-love. Yeah. He does love me.
Honest, he does.
Just as his chuckles at my piteous response register, him sounding happy giving me a tiny ray of hope, something hits my shins. Hard. Leaving an excruciating scorching feeling of where a bruise is already starting to form on top of older patches of black and blue. Before I can even call out in the agony, of every kind, that is blazing through my veins another thing impacts me. This time in the chest and this time unmistakably my dad’s Doc Martins.
I clutch urgently at my chest, hands pawing at it as though I can smoother the pain like Gerard’s hugs can soothe the emotional wounds of knowing that my dad has to hurt me to make a good son. My chest, fuck, I think I might have a broken rib; every in-breath ignites a new firework of agony flaring through my body, forcing me to bite down on my lip in an attempt to hold back the sobs that I know are coming. I know I deserve it and that he’s only doing what he thinks is right, but I’m frightened. I don’t think my body can take it and I’m just so fucking scared. I’m acting like a baby, I know, but I just can’t take it.
“Fucking disgrace, Michael. Stupid little winger. I always said you’re momma shoulda drowned you at birth.” He spits, literally, at me, making me shudder and just lose all control; I’m exhausted and hurt and frightened.
So I cry.
The first thing that registers when I open my eyes is Pete. Just Pete. The Pete who cares like nobody else ever has. The Pete who holds me close as though I’m his human teddy bear. The Pete who makes it all better for me because I think that maybe, just maybe, he might love me as much as I think that I maybe might love him.
But right now he’s the Pete who has wide eyes and a petrified expression on his face telling me that I’ve fucked things up again because I’ve made him worry. A fact that would make me feel twice as guilty as it currently is if it weren’t for the fact that I’m shaking, clinging onto the older boy as though he can keep me safe from all of the memories that make every living moment a living hell, that make me doubt everyone I want to trust, that make me certain that what the bullies tell me is true.
At that thought a sob erupts, sounding out like a banshee’s wail, and I fling my face into Pete’s shoulder where it feels like nothing can ever hurt me even though I know full well that it can. Pete could if he wanted to, and not just with punches, either. I wince as a soft hand irons out the tension in my back, the contact horribly akin to that which I’m used to turning into a punch or some other form of hit, but after going two lengths up and down my back I let myself relax into it; let myself accept that possibly, for reasons that make everything not seem so dark and scary anymore, Pete honestly doesn’t want to hurt me. That he really does care. Maybe even loves me like I thought he did when he licked me as though I’m something worth tasting.
“Shush, Sweetness, shush now. I got you, you’re safe. All safe and good.” His soft whisper trickles into my ear like liquid platinum, coating my insides and making me feel like I’m worth something just for having his comfort. “Nothing and no-one is ever gonna hurt you ever again. I promise you that, Sweetness.”
A soft, featherlike hand tickles it’s way to being underneath my chin and he pulls me out from him, ever so slowly so as not to startle the stupid little kid who can’t take his own memories, and he fixes me with such a look that I can’t help but want to believe his solemn vow. I can’t though, not completely. I can believe that he wants to promise me what he’s trying to, the heart-tingling look in his engulfing eyes tells me that much, but I know that the want will shift into nothingness before too long. As soon as he figures out that I’m a worthless waste of space who’d most likely be happier dead he’ll forget all about what he’s saying right now. I know he will and I honestly don’t blame him for it no matter how much I know it’ll destroy me when he twigs that guys like him never wind up with kids like me.
And then he’ll start hitting me until I bleed. Kicking me until I scream. Yelling things at me until I cry. He’ll be just like everyone else is to me, which is exactly why I shouldn’t be trusting him. Yet here I am, sat on his lap and holding on like Velcro in his Ferrari at the beach. In the middle of winter.
Because I love him.
Because I know that he won’t hurt me. Ever. The way he’s gazing at me, holding me, nuzzling me with his cotton-soft nose, tells me that he won’t; that he actually cares about the weak little shit that the rest of the world hates. He shouldn’t do and he’s stupid if he does, but the mere idea of him liking me like that makes the imminent threat of this all being some big joke fade away into nothing but feeble doubt. No, I know he won’t hurt me.
He promised. And I believe him.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m practically shaking apart in his arms, tears flying down my cheeks like bullets and my heart beating too fast for my lungs to keep up. I know that it was only a nightmare, if you can call a memory that, but it felt so real. I could taste the blood filling my mouth, I could hear the snap of bone; everything was there in a stunning brutality, all of it replaying with perfect accuracy.
I can remember when I woke up after that actually physically happened. I was on Gee’s bed and he, then nearing seventeen, was crying his eyes out as though he was the one who had just been beaten unconscious. No matter how much I told him that I was alright, that I didn’t mind and that it was just one more tiny run-in on top of a million, he just wouldn’t stop letting the tears cascade down his face. Because I’m not even capable of soothing my own big brother through something that’s my own stupid fault.
Pete’s hand is still under my chin, holding my face a few centimetres away from his own, and looking at me with sad eyes. Eyes that aren’t just sad; they’re full of love too. And that fact, the fact that someone who doesn’t have to by blood, cares about me is enough to make my sobs revert to sniffles and my endless torrent of tears slow to a melancholy dribble of raindrops.
“Do you trust me, Sweetness?”
The question, asked in a tone of dead-seriousness that I wouldn’t have put with Pete until today, catches me off-guard. Yet that doesn’t stop one clear, undeniable response from forming in my head.
“Yes.” I whisper and, as though my voice were keys in his ignition, he pulls my face in closer so that our noses are touching and our smiles mirroring.
Smiles? When did I start smiling?
I know he started smiling when I gave him a positive answer, something that makes me feel like the greatest kid on Earth for having done something to make a saint smile, but I can’t pinpoint when exactly the sniffles became extinct and were proceeded by a smile. The kind of smile that I can’t ever remember making before; it’s honest. Pure. Not at all faked but entirely sincere. A little promise of my own in return for Pete’s one, mine reassuring him that I really do trust him and that I’m his as long as he wants me. Just like I think he wants me to be. I’m not acting like this just because I want him to be happy though, which I desperately do, but because it’s something that I desire too.
I want to be Pete’s property. I want to belong to him so that I can say I belong somewhere, with someone who I know can make it all stop with just words and actions. Nobody else has ever taken the time to get this close to me before, largely because no-one other than Gerard has ever wanted to, but it just feels natural. Perhaps with someone other than Pete it would feel wrong or frightening, with Pete though, it just feels right. Like he’s the missing piece that was torn out of my heart when the world turned against me and my heart is letting me let him in because it knows that he can only do me good, never bad.
“I trust you, Pete.” Our lips are almost rubbing as I utter the breathy words, the near-touches making my face tingle with lightning-hot pleasure. A feeling that I’ve never had before; a feeling that makes me even surer that what I’m saying is nothing less than the truth. “I don’t know why, but I do.”
“You don’t know why?” I don’t know whether he sounds mildly hurt or mildly amused when he repeats my words, but the glaze in his eyes tells me that I’ve said the wrong thing. Just like always. But then a strange sparkle takes over his irises like a virus and whatever negative feelings that may have been swelling in my chest are soon drowned out by captivated enchantment. “I’ll show you why.” There’s that signature smirk that I’ve learnt to associate with Pete dancing across his plump lips and making my chest burst in anticipation. In excitement. In love for the owner of the lips forming it. “Close your eyes, Sweetness.”
Without so much as a nanosecond of hesitation, I do as instructed. It’s not something that I would normally do upon command because it leaves me blind to attacks, but this is the second time Pete’s requested it of me and the second time that I have willingly obliged. Because I trust him. And he’s going to show me why.
For a few moments that feel like both decades and blinks at the same time, all that happens is hot breath tangling with hot breath; the two of us breathing hard and deep as though it’s being taken away from us. I know that mine is.
By Pete Wentz, the boy too kind to see that he’s trying to salvage a lost cause. It’s a thought that would normally bring me down to six-feet-under, but the fact that his sugar-scented exhalations are painting my face makes it almost not matter to me at all. Because this overpowering emotion, something that I think might just be love, sweeps over everything until only the good remains inside of me. Like a curtain closing off all of the ugly, nasty little bits and leaving me as someone lovable; as someone worthy of having Pete’s breath feeding my own inhalations.
And then there’s something soft, something perfect in every possible definition of the overused word, pressing against my dry lips and sending jolts of electricity through every millimetre of my body in the most amazing way imaginable. It’s like kissing a moonbeam; an angel.
Pete fucking Wentz is kissing me. And I don’t think that I’ve ever felt this at peace with myself before, like just being me is enough because Pete wants to kiss the me that I’m just being. Not just kissing either; cupping my cheek, pulling me into him, twirling the fingers of his free hand around the sandy-brown tufts of my hair. If I wasn’t safely sat on his lap I think that I probably fallen to the floor by now in complete and utter adulated awe.
My first kiss. And it’s even greater than any of those silly little fairy-tales make it out to be.
It takes the shock of something wet and sponge-like sneaking it’s way into my mouth, Pete’s goddamn tongue no less, for me to react. Everything buzzes into focus and smashes through the dreamy fog that his lily-like lips have eased me into, suddenly making me realise that I’m starving; hungry for something that isn’t food. So I try my best to match his movements, my lips mashing against his like a toddler forcing two puzzle pieces together and I suck around his tongue, making his fingers grip onto my hair even tighter before releasing it completely and trailing like a sensuous waterfall to my waist, fingers digging into my hip bone. He worms his ringers to be underneath my t-shirt, pawing desperately at my skin like a razor blade; deep, breath-taking and tingling with some sort of pleasure that something inside of you says is wrong but everything else screams at you is right.
His tongue works around my mouth, caressing my teeth as though they’re pearls in need of protecting, and then slides back out again, causing an involuntary whimper to fall from my lips because, well, it was too nice having his tongue inside my mouth for me to ever want to be without ever again. It made me feel special; like I’m more than just some abused kid with anxiety issues.
Because when I’m with Pete I’m not simply that kid; I’m Sweetness. His Sweetness. And I love it.
It’s a few more seconds of heavenly bliss before he pulls his lips from their perch on top of mine, leaving me with nothing but the ghost of an amazing memory. One that makes me forget all of the bad.
“Wow, Sweetness.” He gasps, stirring me from my joy-induced coma and making me blink up at him, a nervous twinge hitting at my heart telling me that I didn’t kiss good enough; that he’s not going to want to do it to me ever again. “You’re a good little kisser. You’ll be even better once I’ve taught you a thing or two.”
He winks, making me blush like most things he does do, and I can only nod eagerly with a stupid grin on my face to tell him that I most certainly approve of the idea. Which I do; I liked kissing Pete, it’s the happiest I’ve been since my dad started hurting me when I was nine. It’s the first time in a long time where nothing bad was on my mind at all; no niggling little fears or spits of panic. Just happiness.
Happiness and love.
“Do you know why you trust me now, Sweetness?”
His tone is full of wisdom, his eyes reflecting it, and I at once know the answer. It’s one that I thought I’d never actually say to anyone ever, let alone someone as picture-perfect as Pete Wentz. But it’s just honesty; the kind of raw honesty that Pete’s given me from the off so it’s only fair that I return it. Right?
“Because I love you.”
“Close, Sweetness. Very close.” He pauses, keeping me hanging on his words like his arms are hanging around my waist. “It’s because you’re my boyfriend.”
Wow. He really does want me. Care about me. Love me.
“And I love you too.”
A/N: Thanks for reading and I hope that this was alright. Next chapter we shall be checking in on Gerard and Patrick, so there might be some Gertrick coming your way shortly. Anyways, thank you very much for reading and please, please let me know what you think! :)