Pairing: Joe/Pete, previous Pete/Patrick
Summary: Everyone wants to know the answer.
Disclaimer: Fake, false, not real, make believe. Title belongs to My Chemical Romance.
Dedication: To Sarah, because her dickhead boyfriend just broke up with her, and she said that the song that reminds her of him was I Don't Love You by MCR. I made it for her because I love her. :)
Everyone wants to know the answer. Everyone. It doesn’t matter who you are, it doesn’t matter where you’re from, it doesn’t matter how old you are and it doesn’t matter who your parents are, or if you had none at all, everyone wants to know the answer. Me, I already know the answer, so really, all that’s left is the question. The question could be anything. Usually people start out with the question, you know, what’s the meaning of life, do I need to act so bitchy, do these pants make me look fat, whatever. I didn’t start out with a question, because I never tended to question things. I took things as it was, I didn’t second guess, I didn’t try to change it, I just flowed through life. Then I found the answer.
The answer goes by the name Peter Wentz, but please, call him Pete. Pete questioned everyone, everything, he wanted to know the answer to it all. I guess that’s why he’s my answer. Only when I met him, did I wonder what my question was.
I had always sort of idol worshiped Pete. I did whatever he wanted me to, I didn’t mind, it was Pete after all, how could I not trust him? If he wanted me to go drown in a river of nail polish and toothpicks while playing the fiddle, I would. I guess I’ve always sort of been a bit of a push over, and he was always dominate.
Do you know what BDSM is? Pete does, so do I, he told me. B&D, Bondage and Discipline, D&S, Domination and Submission, S&M, Sadism and Masochism. That’s what Pete likes. He likes dominating over people, and I was always so submissive. I guess that’s how I became his toy, his pet, and how he became my answer.
I have this game where I think of questions, trying to figure out which one is it.
Who beats me down every night?
Who spanks me, the hard kind, where you spit in your hand first?
Who fucks me every night?
Who cleans out the wounds he makes to try and help me heal?
Who kisses me so softly and gently after another rough night?
Who do I love?
I guess it always comes down to that question. Why do I love him? I know he doesn’t feel the same. I guess I love him, because he hurts me. The one you love will always hurt you, but I could never hurt him. He likes to make the hurt, and I love the hurt he gives me. But he doesn’t really want me, if you want to know the truth. I know he’s using me, to get to him, and I don’t care if it’s fake. It makes me feel, to feel him rather than nothing.
Two months ago, Pete and Patrick broke up. Well, Patrick broke up, then Pete came to me, or really, came on me. It was a strange sort of triangle Pete, Patrick and I had, I wanted Pete and Pete wanted Patrick. Patrick was sick of Pete, and Pete never wanted me in the first place.
When you’re in a band, and you’re on tour in a cramped bus almost all the time, you’re going to see your band mates naked, or at least semi-naked a few times, or quite often. Shortly after Pete and I had gotten together, Patrick saw me naked, as to be expected. He looked at all the cuts, all the bruises, and he knew. I remember him saying:
”How could you let him do that to you?”
And I just say:
”Because I’ll take what I get. Because I love him.”
He says nothing, just turned away from me in almost disgust, which I find completely understandable.
One night, tonight, is different than all the other nights that we’ve been together for the past two months. He’s not rough, he doesn’t use whips, he doesn’t slap me or spank me or tie me up. He just lays me down on the soft comforter, and he makes love to me. He’s so gentle with everything he does. He’s moving inside me, slowly, in such a comforting way, and I feel so complete, and I could feel complete and total love. And then everything goes to hell when he whimpers something.
That small word. That small, insignificant little word. I pretend I don’t hear, but I did, and he knows I did, and it’s worse pain than anything else he’s ever done to me. That small, two syllable, seven lettered word, and I know what the question is.
Who would like to think loves me just like I love him, but never really will?